June 1999
Kate Beckett barrels eastward on Route 66, hair whipping behind her in the wind and ears roaring with the throttling sound of her 1994 Harley Softail.
She's leaving Stanford behind, the loss of her mother still a fresh wound on her heart.
She doesn't care where she's going as long as she doesn't stop. Even if it means driving coast to coast until the hole of grief disappears.
Her future is the open road and the bike between her thighs.
What else mattered?
Rick Castle sips from an ice-cold water, relishing in the cool slide of liquid down his gullet on the baking hot day. He tugs a brand-new, travel-sized Moleskine out of his back pocket, plucks a ballpoint pen from inside the blank pages, and studiously observes the people around him.
His debut novel, In a Hail of Bullets, released in December, had hit the best-sellers list for eight straight weeks, skyrocketing him to new fame. His publisher…wow, he had a publisher. How cool was that? Anyway, his publisher (Black Pawn) was already clamoring for another book, even going so far as to reward him with a large advance of ten thousand dollars, the kind of money he was still getting used to having.
He's also up for the Nom-DePlume Society's Tom-Straw-Award for mystery literature, a prestigious honor, his publisher assures him. And he's freshly graduated from college with a major in English Lit and a minor in Psychology—a Bachelor of Arts & Science, Magna Cum Laude.
He should be floating on the moon, but instead, he's crash-landed onto Earth, his heart smashed to bits.
He and his college girlfriend, Kyra, were supposed to take a post-grad trip to Los Angeles together, but she forgot to mention that she'd already accepted a paid internship at BBC News in London for the summer. Something her parents helped set-up, apparently.
She left him in the middle of Grand Central, saying she needed space.
He'd been planning to propose.
His whole world titled on its axis, he found himself stepping on a train to the airport and boarding their flight anyway, needing to run away from it all.
He stumbled out of an LA bar that night with a fiery redhead, wanting to forget he ever met Kyra.
The next morning, he'd been wandering aimlessly around a secondhand bookshop in Santa Monica when he came across a worn copy of Jack Kerouac's On the Road. He bought the paperback, walked out of the store, and immediately spotted a "For Sale" placard in the window of a faded red and souped-up 1960s Mustang convertible.
An image of him behind the wheel, ripping down a lone strip of highway with the top down and music blasting, popped into his head, so clear and bright.
And red was his favorite color.
It was fate.
Thirty minutes later, car keys and pink owner's slip in hand, he slid into the cracked leather of the driver's seat. His fingers hovered reverently over the steering wheel, the anticipation of adventure coursing through him.
Kyra ghosted to the back of his mind.
Coasting down PCH, he drove by the Santa Monica pier, and a sign for the Historic Route 66 had flashed out at him.
Huh.
A cross-country road trip sounded like just the thing to get over Kyra. It worked for Kerouac's characters, didn't it? And maybe he could finally get some writing done; bust up the massive case of writer's block that had been plaguing him since he hit the bestseller's list.
He woke up early the next day, filled his gas tank to the brim, and drove five straight hours before stopping for lunch at the Wagon Wheel Restaurant in Needles, a wayward town right on the border of California and Arizona. His travel guide boasted that their most famous resident was Charles Shultz, the creator of the Peanuts comic strip—a great spot for writerly inspiration. And he could use all the inspiration he could get…he owed Black Pawn a new book by the fall.
He taps his pen against the chrome table surface, his eyes wandering to the window. They pause on a cloud of dust entering the parking lot. Once it clears, he watches the newcomer—a young woman in tight jeans, a Pearl Jam graphic tee, and a black leather jacket, worn and weathered. On her feet, a pair of purple Chuck Taylors.
The woman dismounts from her Harley Softail in a fluid maneuver, elegant and dancer-like. She strips off her helmet and rakes a hand through her dark and shortly cropped hair, the sun winking off her Aviator Ray Bans.
His gaze follows her, entranced, as she walks inside the restaurant. She pauses by the hostess stand, shoving her sunglasses onto her head. Her eyes dart around the space. They briefly land on him, catching his open stare, and he quickly glances away.
Shit.
He focuses on a blemish in the floor tile, his heart hammering in his chest.
"What're you writing?"
He swings his head up, finding her in front of him. Words traffic-jam in his throat. "I—nothing. Observations," he stammers.
"See anything interesting?" she asks, cocking her helmet on her hip, her hazel eyes daring him to respond. He wishes something suave would fall out of his mouth, anything akin to charm really.
But all that comes out is, "Nice bike."
"Staring is creepy, you know."
"Sorry, I didn't mean—"
A waitress arrives, bringing the cheeseburger and fries he'd ordered earlier. Without missing a beat, the motorcycle girl swipes the basket of fries from the serving tray.
"But—" he starts to protest.
"Fry tax," she says. "For the staring," she adds, before turning on her heel and smoothly gliding onto a seat at the nearby counter.
The matronly waitress flashes him a baleful look.
"Can I get another basket?" he asks meekly.
She writes on her pad, shaking her head.
"And one other thing—"
Kate senses he's the harmless type, but it doesn't hurt to have a little fun. Crunching down on her stolen fries, she glances back at him. He's bowed over his Moleskine, bobbing, as he scribbles something furiously. He has a great head of hair, the kind that's thick and wavy and flops over his forehead in all the right places. He's cute. Really cute.
And teasing a cute stranger wasn't the worst way to stop thinking about her mother.
Or her father.
He didn't seem to care what she was up to these days, not bothering to pick up the phone when she called. Probably drying out another bender in some precinct's drunk tank. Probably wouldn't care that she dropped out of school.
No, she was on her own.
She fiddles with her fry, her thoughts getting too crowded.
A milkshake is slid in front of her.
"I didn't order—"
"The gentleman over there. He thought you might like it with your fries," the matronly waitress says.
She scoots into the booth bench across from him.
"Why'd you choose strawberry?" she asks.
He sits up straight, swiping a hand through his hair.
"Oh, uh," he starts. Then, gestures at her outfit. "You don't seem like someone who goes with the traditional choice."
She regards him, wary but inquisitive.
"Which one's yours?" she asks, jerking her chin to the parking lot.
"The '69 Mustang."
"Family heirloom?" she queries.
"Bought it off a guy yesterday."
"Yesterday?"
"Was supposed to go on vacation with my girlfriend. Ex now, I guess. And decided to take a road trip back home instead."
She arches her brow, intrigued.
"Dumped?"
"Left me for a job in London," he answers.
"You don't seem too broken up about it."
"I don't look pretty crying."
She smirks slightly.
"Where's home?" she asks.
"New York City," he replies.
"No shit."
From her tone, he gathers, "You, too?" He edges forward in his seat, enthused. "Where—wait, let me guess. You're not bridge-and-tunnel—no trace of the boroughs when you talk, so that means Manhattan. That means money. That means college. Probably a pretty good one."
Her expression hardens into stone, and yet, he continues, caught up in the story.
"But you're here in the middle of nowhere by yourself. Which means you're running from something. Or someone…maybe someone you cared about. No, someone you loved," he theorizes excitedly. He falters when he notices the pained look on her face and the tears pricking the corner of her eyes.
"Cute trick," she says flatly. She pushes her milkshake toward him and moves to leave.
"Wait, I'm sorry. Please don't go," he says, catching her wrist when she stands.
"You don't know me."
She shakes his grip off.
"Maybe I'd like to," he says.
"I'd say that's a mistake," she snaps, bringing her sunglasses back down over her eyes. "Thanks for the food, Writer Boy."
She peels out of the parking lot, churning up another cloud of dust as she disappears down the road. He returns to his Moleskin, his fingers itching and words pouring out of him.
She fled, wounded, but he wasn't sure who or what had hurt her. There was an air of mystery about her that he wanted to solve.
His flow is interrupted when the waitress stops by to drop off his check. He wonders if he should stay longer, take advantage of this sudden bout of inspiration, but the sun is throwing long shadows across the landscape. He should get going before dark. Pulling out some bills, he leaves behind a large tip and tucks away his writing tools.
He exits the restaurant, the desert heat washing over him, as he approaches his car.
The vinyl leather seat of the driver's seat is hot to the touch.
"Shit," he whispers under his breath, rummaging for something he can lay down as protection. He unpacks a jacket and then, wrestles the top down, the hinges squeaking in protest.
He jams the keys into the ignition, firmly pressing down on the clutch and gently coaxing the engine as it turns over. It roars smoothly after a couple more turns.
"Thatta girl," he says, triumphantly. He glances at the open map on his passenger seat, where he's drawn the path of Route 66 as far as it goes, all the way from Santa Monica to Chicago, marking important towns and roadside tourist attractions. Technically, it was the 1-40, since Route 66 had been chopped up and officially decommissioned back in '85.
All because of Eisenhower's Federal Interstate Act of '56, which sought to eliminate traffic congestion by making four-lane highways the standard across the U.S. (in case big cities needed to evacuate due to nuclear attack), but about 85% of the road remained the same, packed with homages to its heyday.
Next stop: Flagstaff, Arizona.
Halfway through the three hour drive, with AC/DC screaming from an FM channel, he spots a lone figure on the side of the road, sticking out their thumb. He squints as he slows down, lowering the radio volume. When he recognizes the motorcycle girl from the restaurant, a smile breaks out on his face.
"Hitchhiking is dangerous, you know," he says, pulling to a halt in front of her.
Her expression sours at the sight of him.
"Are you saying you're dangerous?"
"I—uh, no. I'm just saying—"
She smirks.
"Never mind," he finishes, deflating. He cards a hand through his hair as if to regain his composure. "You need a lift?" he asks, gesturing to the white smoke venting from the front of her bike.
She sighs, contemplating.
I'm on a highway to hell, highway to hell
"Fitting," she says.
He smacks the radio off.
"I can call a tow for you," he suggests, opening his glove compartment and reaching for his cell phone. It was the first thing he bought when his first royalty check cleared.
"Don't think they have service out here," she reveals, slightly defeated. "Where you headin'?"
"Flagstaff. You?"
She doesn't respond, thinking, and starts walking around to the back of his car. Curious, he opens his door and climbs out of his seat.
"Looking for something?" he asks, leaning against the rear wheel well, arms crossed.
"Can you—?" she asks, motioning at the trunk.
"You want me to open it?" he asks.
"Is that a problem?"
He shrugs. "Ted Bundy liked to lure his victims by pretending something was wrong with his car."
She rolls her eyes. "Forget it."
"Not a fan of true crime?" he asks.
"Don't really think of murder as entertaining," she shoots back, a shadow passing over her face.
"I wasn't…I didn't mean to imply—I'm sorry," he fumbles. He moves toward the trunk, popping the lid open in apology. Why did he keep putting his foot in his mouth around her?
She relaxes and examines the space littered with bits of loose trash and other debris.
"Sorry for the mess. Didn't really get around to cleaning and—"
She waves him off, focusing on the O-rings attached to each side of the interior.
"Got any belts?" she asks after a moment.
"What for?"
They heave the front of her bike into the trunk and with strained effort, he holds it steady as she threads several of his belts through the front wheel, lashing them around the O-rings and fashioning a makeshift tow caddy.
"Think it'll hold?" he asks, eyeing the contraption skeptically, the trunk flap sitting awkwardly on top.
"We're a little over an hour away. It should be enough," she says with a false confidence.
"You sure you don't wanna call someone?"
"Don't wanna wait around in the dark," she says, analyzing the sun's low position in the sky before training her gaze back on him. The corner of her mouth twitches upward almost playfully.
"Wouldn't want to run into any serial killers."
xxx
A/N: I've been working on this one for a spell, so I'm really excited for you all to check it out! Of all the stories I've written, this one might just be my favorite.
It'll be 30 chapters + Epilogue with consistent updates every Tuesday and Friday and each new post will be up before or by 9 a.m. PST.
CONTENT WARNING: For anyone 17 and under, please be advised there is mature content ahead, including excessive drug/alcohol use, suicidal ideation, and references to sexual assault. (So, you know, pleasant stuff). That said, I promise this story does not get dark and is, in fact, a fun summer romp (sex, drugs, and rock n' roll, baby!) that will maintain a T-rating. However, it's not without its angst because you can't have a good Caskett story without some angst.
Also, as a bonus, I put together a companion playlist on Spotify. It's a mix of rock, folk, alt rock, blues, etc. Some songs are on there because they're just absolute bangers and some are just for pure road trip vibes, but others are thematically relevant in some way to the characters and story and might even pop up throughout (who doesn't like some Easter Eggs?). Additional song recommendations are welcome!
You can find the playlist link pinned to the profile page of my new Twitter - mysterymuseffn (follow for story updates and more!)
Let me know what you think!