A/N - Hi Everyone,

Phew, this was interesting to write. Not sure if I hit the exact mark I was going for, but I'll leave the critique up to you. Thanks, always to everyone who has favorited and followed. Thanks also to those of you who have checked out my other stories. I've just published another Martha & Rick one shot called, Coffee and Concessions. Please check it out, if you get the chance.

My ever undying gratitude to those of you who take the time to leave a comment. I have the best reviewers on the site. I brag about you to everyone. If I had pictures... Anyway, I hadn't posted a shout out in a while, so thanks to wendykw, TORONTOSUN, southerngirl11, The-KLF, zats, NutsAboutHarry, PurpleSatin, cate78, andithomas1, Moochiecat, katiek121, ebfiddler, Castlelover777 & the guest reviewers. You all, through your kind words and encouragement make this so. much. fun.

Enjoy!

~GeekMom

Martha's Heart

Chapter 14

New Experiences

Pounding. Someone was pounding on his head or maybe in his head. He slowly came back to consciousness. He realized he was leaning up against his couch, on the floor along with the remnants of the end of semester party that had swallowed up all of the tenants who attended school. It did not matter which school; it was a party. The pounding increased. He rubbed his eyes; his eyes that he would swear were now filled with sand. He looked down and focused on his hand. He squinted, "God I have incredibly feminine hands." He tried to get up, but found himself held in place by a weight. The weight, as it turned out, was a cute co-ed. He didn't remember seeing her before. "Ah! It's her hand." He giggled. Yeah, he was not hung-over at all; he was still drunk. Hung-over would assuredly come later. Then there was the pounding again. He slowly came to recognize that someone was pounding on his front door. He pushed the unconscious girl aside. "Oh god, I hope she's unconscious and not dead!" he said, panicked. He laid a hand on her breast, licked his lips and smiled, impishly. "Yup, still breathing." He rose slowly, realizing he was only dressed in a tee shirt and boxers, and made his way to the door.

He opened the door and a deliveryman jumped back. "Oh man, I thought you'd never come. I need Richard Castle's signature on this delivery."

Rick looked at him blearily. "Who's?"

The guy peered at his clipboard. "A Richard Castle?"

It clicked. "Oh, yeah, um, that's me." He rubbed his hand over his face in a futile attempt to clear away the fuzziness of the morning.

"Yeah, right. You got ID?"

"I just told you I'm the guy. Look, I changed my name earlier this month. I'm just…not used to it yet." The deliveryman still wasn't buying it. "Okay, give me a sec to find my pants." Rick surveyed the wreckage of his living room and kitchen without success. "Must be in the bedroom. I'll be right back."

The deliveryman smiled and craned his neck to see the interior of the apartment. It hadn't been too long ago that he had been throwing wild apartment destroying parties. He sighed. A wife, two kids and a mortgage made the days of waking up to complete strangers and no clear memory of what happened to get you in such a state, a thing of the past. Good memories, though.

Rick opened his bedroom door and discovered why he had been on the living room floor. Judging by the number and types of limbs, he'd guess there were at least five bodies of various genders piled on the bed. He spied his pants on the floor by the dresser. He picked them up, quickly retrieved his wallet, and returned to the guy. He showed the man his new driver's license and then he was allowed to sign his name. He was careful to sign Castle and not Rodgers. It had been a tough habit to break. He figured it was what women had to do when they got married.

"Thanks," said the deliveryman, He acknowledged the remnants and wistfully commented, "Looks like it was a hell of a party, kid."

"Um, yeah." Rick said as he closed the door. He tossed the package on the kitchen counter and proceeded to pull on his pants. He had a list of things that needed to be done today and the first was to pee. He made it to his bathroom after dodging more comatose people he didn't know. He came out and sat down in a chair, propped his feet up on the arm of the couch and promptly went back to sleep.

The next time he woke it was to ringing. Loud, obnoxious, crazily irritating ringing. He slammed open his eyes. "Oh, oh, god." He swore. He was no longer drunk. He looked around for the source of the unbelievable racket. "Why is my phone so noisy? Must be broken." He reached over to the table and knocked over some plastic cups containing stale beer. "Jeez! Hello?"

"Richard!" He held the receiver away from his ear. He was having a hard time with normal sounds, the clock ticking, a roach skittering across the floorboards; he couldn't take his mother's excessively exuberant discourse today. He felt sick. "Oh, darling isn't it wonderful?"

What? What was she saying? Was she speaking a different language? He licked his lips and felt like he had a cat's tongue, all sticky and rough. "What, what's wonderful, Mother?"

"Darling, are you ill?"

"Um, sort of," he answered quietly.

"Richard, are you hung-over?" He could picture her face. He had seen it before. She usually wore a mixture of amusement and disapproval with a dash of guilt thrown in when he had accomplished the completion of a life lesson. He could never understand how she could be so silently judgmental. He, himself had nursed her through many hangovers. By the time he was twelve, he made one of the better Bloody Marys in Manhattan.

He sighed, "Mother, I'm hung-over, how could I be underage?"

"Uh-huh." She sighed audibly. "Darling, did you receive a package?"

"Um, I'm not…Oh wait, yeah the pounding guy. Yeah."

"The pounding what…oh never mind. Have you opened it?"

Oh dear lord, why was his mother still talking. "Um, no, not yet. I had to pee."

Martha closed her eyes. "Good dear. I honestly did not need to know that." She sighed. "Oh please just open it now."

"What?"

"The package dear."

"Oh, um, yeah, okay." He picked up the phone and walked over to the kitchen counter.

She heard a drawer being opened. "Richard did you get out a knife? Oh, please be careful you probably shouldn't handle knives in your condit…"

"Ow, dammit!" He sucked on his finger and scowled. "I'm opening it. Mother is this from you? Because I'm getting blood on it."

She grimaced and wrapped the phone cord around her fingers as she listened to the sound of packing materials being opened and discarded.

"Oh my god. Mother, it's my book! My book! Oh, god, it's printed and," he flipped it over, "there's me." A broad smile spread across his face, starting at his lips but soon encompassing all of his features. He whooped, but no one else was awake. 'No matter,' he thought, 'I don't know anyone anyway.'

"Richard?" Martha asked from the abandoned phone receiver. She heard him whooping and shouting and she smiled. "Richard?" She tried again.

"Mother, are you still there?" his breathless voice returned to the phone.

"Yes, dear."

"Let's celebrate. Okay?"

Martha smiled, "You've got it kiddo. I know just the place."

Rick showered and dressed quickly, grabbed his wallet, keys, and his book and ran out the door. He returned a couple of minutes later and wrote a note to the nameless partiers asking them to take their stuff and lock up. Rick didn't own much of value, but what he did have, he wanted to keep.

He stopped by his mailbox and pulled out a variety of envelopes, bills, ads, and offers. He walked outside and leafed through the correspondence putting most of it into the trash receptacle owned by the city. He froze when he found one from Black Pawn.

"Probably more legal bullshit," he said to no one. He pocketed the rest and opened his publisher's envelope.

Dear Rick,

With the positive reviews In a Hail of Bullets has received, pre-release bookstore sales have been phenomenal. We are pleased to enclose your first royalties check. Please have Nick contact me to discuss a publicity tour. Black Pawn is pleased to be able to represent you as you embark on your career.

Best regards,

Pete

He folded the letter, stuck it back in the envelope, and dug out the check at the same time. He unfolded it and his heart stopped. He looked at it again. Yeah, there were that many zeroes. He looked around, suddenly paranoid about having the check out in the open. He folded it and shoved it into his pocket. He quickly made his way down the steps of the subway station.

He emerged from the Thirty-ninth street station and started his walk to the diner his mother suggested. He stopped at a branch of his bank and deposited the check. The teller looked up, surprised by the amount. He grinned. He left the bank and passed boutiques and specialty stores. He walked past a bookstore and a title caught his eye. His title, his book, in the front window. It was so weird. Surreal and intoxicating. He loitered there, surreptitiously glancing in the window every few seconds to see if anyone was checking out his book. After several minutes, the manager approached him and asked him, politely but firmly to leave. He tried to explain about his book, but the man only nodded his head as if he was humoring him. He surrendered and continued his walk, but glanced several times, longingly back toward the bookstore.

Martha waited for her son. She was giddy. Her son, the author. It made sense; he had always written. He loved books and spent his free time writing or reading when he was younger. She picked up her copy, the publisher had been kind enough to send her a copy also, and she held it up and read the title again. She flipped the book and saw his picture. Her heart leapt in her chest for the hundredth time that day. It was akin to seeing her name in a playbill: the thrill, the pride, the sense of accomplishment. Lost in her thoughts and pride, she didn't see her author walk in and come up behind her.

He leaned around her head and kissed her cheek. "Oh! Oh, Richard! Look, I have your book." She practically screamed it.

"I know Mother," he beamed, "it's exciting, right?"

She looked at him closely. He hadn't shaved; his eyes were bloodshot and puffy. "Oh my dear."

"What? What's the matter?"

"Well, darling," she began. He still cringed when she used that particular endearment. "Your appearance."

"What?" He asked unbelieving that she would want to talk about this. "What about it?" He silently berated himself for asking. He knew better than to rise to the bait.

"Darling, your picture, not your best one by the way, graces the back of thousands of copies of your books. You will be recognized sooner or later. I'm only saying that you really should take care of the Richard Castle you choose to present to the world and I don't think you want that to be…scruffy."

He blinked, sat back in his chair, and considered her. He asked himself for the thousandth time why she felt it necessary to quash any feelings he had of accomplishment and success. It had happened all through high school and now this. How many other nineteen-year-olds did she know who had been published? He would never figure it out. He decided that it didn't matter much. He was an adult, an adult author who had been published and he had his first check, besides the advance. First royalty check that was all his after he paid Nick his seven. He sighed. "I'm fine, Mother. I don't think that twenty minutes after it goes on the shelves, someone will recognize me, and if someone does, I'll try not to scare anybody or let it go to my head." The waitress came with menus and glasses of water. He smiled and said, "Just in time." He shot the waitress, whose name was Ginny, a devastating smile. She giggled and flirted with him, and practically ignored Martha as she took their orders. She left them and silence cloaked the table. "I don't think my appearance bothered her in the least."

"So, what are your plans for the summer?" She asked, breezily changing the subject, as if she couldn't read her son's irritation.

"Looks like publicity tours and such. Yours?"

"Oh, how exciting. Me? Oh, I'm looking at several projects."

The rest of their conversation went on the same way. Niceties and one word answers or short phrases. Rick was annoyed and she didn't have a clue what she had done. He looked at his watch after they finished their meals. "I have a meeting, Mother," he said as he stood.

She was proud of him, but judging from his attitude, she was not sure if she had successfully conveyed that. She tried when she offered him advice. "Looks like it's time to put on your big boy pants," she said dramatically. He made a face and leaned over to kiss her cheek. "What, Richard? Why are you so upset? Is it because I said you looked scruffy? Your appearance really does matter. Bloodshot eyes won't cut it. You are only nineteen."

Ah, the root. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"I, um, I'm worried about you."

He looked at her skeptically. "Since when?"

"Oh, that's not fair," she argued, but she knew he had a point. "I'm worried that it's all happening too fast. That you won't handle the fast living well."

He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. He had a hangover, a headache and any sense of self-worth and accomplishment had effectively been doused by hurricane Martha. "I really do have to go." He reached in his back pocket and pulled out his wallet.

"Richard, you don't have to pay…Oh my god, where did you get that?" She had seen into his billfold. He was a broke college kid only at college by the grace of a scholarship. He was not supposed to have money and yet her son had just pulled out one of several twenties.

He picked up the bill and the money and addressed his mother. "Mother, you may have missed it, because you were distracted by my scruffy appearance, but my book has been published. They pay you for that sort of thing," he said scathingly. He sighed and said, "I'll talk to you later." He turned and walked out of the diner but not before he stopped their giggly waitress Ginny, smiled and whispered in her ear and handed her the bill, the cash and a piece of paper with his name and number.

The summer proved to be full of new and exciting experiences for the new and exciting Richard Castle. Book parties, bookstore appearances and, as In a Hail of Bullets quickly climbed the New York Times Best Seller list, more and more people were interested in spending time with him.

Martha was gone on a touring production and he didn't expect to see her until mid-August. He received postcards and an occasional message on his phone.

Rick, having more disposable income than he had ever had before, made some purchases. He had moved to a slightly more respectable apartment in Little Italy, furnished it with the necessities like a bed and couch and some of the un-necessary items like a full sized hammock, a complete video game system and a pinball machine. His new apartment became a very popular place for parties. Rick had suddenly become very popular. It wasn't that he didn't have friends before his book, but most of them were true friends. The people who came to his parties came because of his new found wealth and fame. Rick was having too good of a time to notice how badly he was being used.

Martha opened the door of her hotel room and dropped her bag on the bed. She immediately went into the bathroom and started the water. A good soak in the tub was exactly what her tired muscles craved. She walked back out to the bedroom to get her pajamas and noticed the message light blinking furiously on the bedside phone. She read the instructions on how to retrieve messages and picked up the receiver to listen to her message.

She heard a voice she did not recognize. "This number is to a hotel room. No answer. Do you want to leave a message?" There was a pause and then the voice continued, but muffled. "You have two minutes."

There was a long exhale. "Mother? It's Richard, I, um, I'm, I got into some trouble and I'm…" another sigh, "I'm sorry, I…I shouldn't have called. You're busy and some, somewhere that's not here. I'm sorry, I'm really sorry." She heard the click of the hang up. She didn't even know where to find him. She had an idea, but she prayed she was wrong.

She called his home phone. "Yo' Ricky's phone."

She frowned. "Who is this?"

"Yo, lady, you called here."

"I'm Ricky's mother." She had never cared for that nick name at least not after he turned eight.

"Oh, oh man. I'm Ramone, Ricky's number one guy."

"Really," she said acerbically. "May I speak to him?"

"Who?"

"Your number one guy: Ricky."

"Nah, sorry Momma Castle, he's not here."

"No my name…never mind. Where is he?"

"Hmm. I guess you're okay. He said not to tell anyone, you know, from the press."

"I'm not the press."

"Yeah, yeah. Well, he was hosting one of his over the top awesome parties. Holy shit, some of the girls looked like they were NFL cheerleaders or something and they weren't shy. God it was great."

"Ramone!"

"Yeah, anyway some dudes brought some coke. The cops came and it was a mess. They hauled off Ricky and about fifteen others."

Martha rubbed the knot that was beginning to develop behind her eyes. "How long ago?"

"What?"

"When did they get arrested?"

"Oh man, just a couple of hours ago…actually, um let me do the math. Um yesterday, um, yeah, I mean last night."

"Ramone, how was Richard?"

He shook his head, "Ricky was pretty amped, but so was everybody else. Too bad the cops had to break up the fun."

"Mmhm, too bad…thank you, Ramone."

"Do you want me to tell him to call you or something?"

"No, thank you. I'll call back." Martha hung up the phone and sat with her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands.

The door to her room opened and she heard, her boyfriend, Wendell Fletcher, the set decorator for the company come in. "Martha, you're going to flood the bathroom."

"Oh, I forgot it was running." She rushed by him and turned off the tap just in time.

"You seem a little distracted? What's up?"

"Oh Fletch, it's my son. I think he's gotten himself into some real trouble."

"This is your grown son?"

"Yes, but you don't just stop being their parent when they turn eighteen."

"Martha, is he hurt or in physical danger?"

She shook her head. "Not that I'm aware of."

He took her in his arms to sooth her. "He'll be okay," he said while stroking her hair. Whatever it is, it's probably a lesson he should have learned a long time ago. The odds just caught up to him this time."

He could think of about a dozen other times when he didn't mind being someone's pillow. How many hot girls had used his lap while he absently ran his fingers through long sexy strands of hair? He closed his eyes. The head that was currently lying on his lap belonged to an unconscious, three hundred pound, bald, man, who wore jeans and a black leather vest embellished with a patch depicting Lucifer's expulsion from heaven. His new friend hadn't seen the inside of a shower or had been acquainted with a toothbrush in what Rick estimated to be weeks. Rick sat very still, barely breathing, not wanting to disturb the brute's slumber. Two other men took up residence with them in the jail cell. The first was also passed out and lying under the bench Rick currently called home. The second nervously paced back and forth, talking to himself. Well that probably wasn't entirely true. Rick deduced that he was having conversations with unseen companions.

When he was booked, he was feeling fine, cocky, and indestructible, but that was several hours ago. Now, he was completely sober, feeling sick, alone, and completely humiliated. The other guys from the party who had been arrested at the same time had all found friends and family to come and get them. He wondered briefly and bitterly where all of his really good friends from his parties were now? His mother was somewhere in the mid-west. He thought he called her, but she didn't try to get in touch, so he thought he must have dreamt it. Hell's angel snorted in his sleep as if making a commentary to Rick's thoughts.

"Richard Castle?" The cop asked. Rick raised his hand. The cop didn't smile, but looked at him sternly. "Come on cupcake, the charges have been dropped."

To say he was surprised would have been an understatement, but he didn't want to question and find out that someone may have made a mistake. He quickly extracted himself from his bunk buddy and stepped over the other sleeping beauty and over to the cell door. He walked out from the relatively dark and dank holding cell to the bright blinding lights of prisoner processing to collect his personal property.

"Rick," a voice behind him called.

He turned around and strained to see the source in the brightness. He tilted his head. "Nick?"

"Yeah. Come on, get your things." He said shaking his head.

The officer dumped the contents of a manila envelope on the counter and enumerated his possessions that had been confiscated. His wallet: containing credit cards, his ID, a metro card and six hundred dollars in cash; his keys, his belt and shoes. He put it all away and put his shoes and belt back on then followed Nick out of the precinct.

They walked in silence for a block before Rick found the courage to break the silence. "Uh, Nick," he said as he put his hand on his agent's arm. "Um, thanks."

"I'm your ride Rick," he snapped. "Oh that and the guy that needs to make this go away with the press. Bad boy works for some people, Rick, but not an underage kid who got lucky with his book."

Rick felt like he'd been slapped. "Lucky?"

"Yeah."

"Why were the charges dropped?"

"Seems that the police commissioner's daughter was at your party last night. He wants to make it all go away. So it never happened. None of it."

Rick digested the new information. "But…"

Nick spun around and got right in Rick's face. "Listen, I don't know what kind of good luck charm you were born under, but sooner or later that luck will run out. As it stands now, I have a hell of a lot of extra damage control work to do because of your escapades." He shook his head. "God, Rick, get your head out of your ass and grow up." The older man strode angrily away from him. He turned and said, "Find your own ride, I have work to do."

He walked to the subway and descended the steps. He stopped at a newsstand for a bottle of water and then saw the tabloids. "Writing Whiz-Kid Wrong" "Castle of Sand" "In a Jail of Bullets?"

He ran a hand down his face and cursed, "Shit." He agreed that Nick had every right to be pissed at him. He'd screwed up.

He arrived home. It was empty of cataleptic party goers. It was still full of trash, stale chips, and beer and drug paraphernalia. He sighed heavily as he surveyed the ruins that were once his apartment, ran a hand through his hair, and headed to the kitchen for a trash bag. Nick was right. It was time he grew up. But, just a little, he thought. He started cleaning his place. "Jeez, I'm such a jackass." He said to no one.

"You are," came a response from the hall.

Rick jumped back and swung the plastic bag at the interloper. "Oh. My. God. Mother, where did you come from?"

"Cincinnati."

"Why are you here? And how did you get in?"

"I got a phone call from my son. He said he was in trouble. Have you seen him? Oh, and the door was unlocked."

Rick made a face and looked at the door. "Figures. I'm sorry that I called you. You didn't have to come."

"Didn't have to…Richard, what in the hell happened?"

He sat down on the couch heavily, he held his hands in his lap, and he was staring at his interlaced fingers. Martha sat down next to him. He looked lost and sad. She had seen sudden wealth and fame destroy young people in her business. She made up her mind that it was not going to happen to her son. She had never been a strict disciplinarian, but she hadn't needed to be either. Clearly, that had changed. Her son needed guidance and boundaries. She reached over and covered his hands with hers. He leaned over against her shoulder and she embraced him. He would be okay; she would make sure of it.

Back at school the following August, Rick met up with some old friends and made some new ones. He was more selective, now and wary of people who wanted to get closer to him because of his accomplishments.

"Yeah."

"Richard? Is that any way to answer the phone?"

"Sorry, Mother. I'm working right now."

"Working? On what?"

"On homework."

"Oh. Do you like your classes?"

"Mostly. The American Lit guy is a douche."

"Really Richard."

"Well, he is. One of his favorite assignments is to pick a popular novel and tear it to shreds. In a Hail of Bullets is on the list. Apparently if it was on the best seller list, it's fair game."

"Oh Richard, does he know it's your book?"

"Well, I would think that he has to. I mean he has my name on his rolls. So I'm going to fail that assignment. There's something very wrong about criticizing my own work."

"It sounds like he needs to make himself feel better by tearing down others."

"I guess. We had to critique a Patterson last week. There's nothing wrong with his stories."

"You have to take the class, I take it."

"Yeah, and I have to pass it."

"Hm, so just do the best you can, I guess. Have you made any new friends?"

"Mother, I'm not attending preschool." He balked, but he knew she was vigilant about him not getting pulled into the wrong crowd again.

"I'm happy you're over the girl of the week phase." He rolled his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Anyone new hanging on your every syllable?"

"No one at this time, unless you count the hookers. How's Fletch?"

"Okay kiddo, I guess were done. Be good."

"Goodbye Mother." He hung up his phone and opened his book. Time to trash another author.

Classic. That's how they met. Like all the pulp romance novels. He saw her as she sat down under the tree a few feet away. She was petite, had short brown hair and bright alert eyes, taking in the activity of the quad. He quickly opened his notebook and began describing the young woman. She looked content, happy, relaxed, and mischievous. With one more sweep of the quad with her gorgeous brown eyes, she spotted him. How could she not? He was practically staring, almost stalking. They made eye contact. Rick got chills. He packed up his bag, stood, ran his fingers through his hair, and walked over towards her.

He towered over her. "Hi," he shyly began and held out his hand, "I'm Rick. Rick Castle."

Kyra sat down on the cool grass under an oak on the quad. There were students scattered here and there. A Frisbee flew past her and landed in the grass. Frisbee was practically a requirement at every college campus. Students were protesting or promoting their causes with signs and petitions. Many students were walking or sitting in groups. Some couples sat, face to face, holding hands, gazing with love eyes at each other. Kyra rolled her eyes. She had just ended a relationship with her boyfriend, Toby Purcell. Toby was a great boyfriend for her senior year of high school. He was dangerous and exotic; he owned a motorcycle and had tattoos, but only just a boy in the end. Kyra wasn't looking to tie herself down to any one boy. That had been the problem, she had dated boys. The future men who hadn't really grown up yet. She wanted to meet someone who knew where he was going, what he wanted, and how to treat a woman. 'God," she thought, 'I sound like an article in Cosmo.' She smiled at the thought. There were a few articles in Cosmo she would not mind putting into practice, with the right man, of course. She was just about to open her book when she noticed the most beautiful pair of blues eyes she had ever seen, staring at her. She was momentarily preoccupied with their depth and passion, lost until she realized that the owner of the eyes was moving, toward her. She watched him approach. He looked familiar. Tall, well taller than most, she had to tip her head farther back just to see his face. He had brown hair that barely brushed his shoulders. He was slender, but according to the way his tee shirt and jeans hugged his body, he appeared to be fit. Built, even, like a swimmer's body. Hmm, Cosmo, she thought. He got closer and said something.

He had extended his hand, but she noticed it about a beat too late. He was already retracting the proffered hand, when she grabbed a hold of it. "Oh, um, I'm Kyra," she mumbled, "Kyra Blaine." He raised his eyebrows and then smiled. Kyra liked it. His smile was lopsided, not as perfect as she thought it would be. His smile stretched to his eyes and if possible, they were brighter and bluer because of it. Kyra smiled back.