"Route 66, huh?" she says, picking up his map and settling into the passenger seat.
"Technically, it's the I-40. The Route got officially decommissioned back in '85 because Eisenhower passed this..." Off her blank stare, he trails off. "Yeah, Route 66," he finishes lamely.
She wedges something out from beneath her thigh: his copy of On the Road. "Trying to write the next Great American novel?"
"Something like that," he says, grabbing it from her and sliding it into a pouch on the driver's side door, feeling like a fool.
"That's ambitious," she notes.
He turns the ignition on. The engine coughs and hiccups, but slowly sputters to life. He hides his exhale of relief. Thank god.
"I already have a New York Times Bestseller, so I don't think it's out of the question," he says as he maneuvers into first gear and tentatively pulls back out onto the road. He checks the bike in his rearview, willing it not to fall out of its haphazard tether. When he reaches a moderate cruising speed and the bike stays attached, seemingly secure, he relaxes. Whew.
So far so good.
"Didn't realize I was riding with Mr. Big Shot over here," she says.
"It's up for an award," he defends.
"And oh so humble," she says with a sarcastic laugh.
"I think some ego is healthy," he argues. "Confidence is key."
"Bet you think you're God's gift to Earth," she says.
"Hardly," he protests.
"Yeah? Grew up in Manhattan. Went to the finest private schools. Had girls fawning all over you. And you've always gotten what you wanted. Sound about right?"
"Ever heard of don't judge a book by its cover?"
"God, you're such a prep," she says in disdain.
What was her deal? Giving him shit when she was the one acting all high and mighty.
"And you're a wannabe punk," he shoots back. "The tough-as-nails, doesn't-give-a-shit attitude? There's a person underneath all that. Someone with actual feelings. I see right through you, Motorcycle Girl."
"Motorcycle Girl?"
"You didn't give me your name," he says, "Rick Castle." He offers a hand over the console.
She refuses his gesture, crossing her arms.
"Kate," she edges out reluctantly.
"Nice to meet you, Kate."
"Wish I could say the same," she says, propping an elbow on the passenger-side door and looking away. He studies her profile for a moment.
Okay, so she's a bit prickly. But she's also a woman traveling alone. Being abrasive as a protective measure came with the territory, he rationalizes.
"What are you doing so far from home?" he asks eventually.
"None of your business."
He knows he has no right to pry, but he can't help it, everything about her raising questions, begging to be answered.
"I told you something about myself. It's your turn," he says, hoping that might earn him some headway.
"You were bragging. That doesn't count," she scoffs.
"Okay, fine. What do you want to know?" he asks.
She shifts in her seat, contemplating. Oh, he's definitely got her on the hook.
"Favorite author," she decides.
"That's really what you want to know?"
"What, not probing enough for you?" she deadpans. "I thought you writers live and die for that kind of question."
"Live and die for?" he chuckles.
"Forget I asked," she huffs.
"It's a tie between Arthur Conan Doyle and Agatha Christie," he reveals, trying to smooth things over and reel her back in.
"Huh."
"What?"
"Pegged you for Hemingway or Fitzgerald," she says.
"I like a good mystery," he says simply. "Another all-time of mine is Ian Fleming," he tacks on. "He's kind of one of the reasons I became a writer."
She snorts derisively. "Bond is so—"
"Awesome?" Castle fills in, "He has the coolest gadgets and gets all the babes."
An eye-roll from her. "Typical."
"He's not a franchise name for nothing," the writer contends.
She shakes her head in disbelief.
He taps her shoulder with his forefinger.
"You're up," he says, "You owe me a personal fact."
She knocks his hand away. "So pushy."
"Just one little thing," he pleads. "Least you can do for the guy giving you a free ride."
"Doesn't feel so free right now," she grumbles.
"I'll be quiet the rest of the way," he suggests. "How's that?"
"Really?"
"Scout's honor," he promises, holding up three fingers.
She stares at him, suspicious, but gives in after a beat. "Okay…" she begins. "I dropped out of school."
"College too conformist for you?" he queries.
"Something like that."
He glances at her expectantly, waiting for her to continue, but she's silent.
"That's all I get?"
"That's all you get," she says, clipped, before turning the dial up on the radio to a deafening volume. It stays that way until they roll into town, just as the late summer sun is disappearing into the horizon.
The young writer lowers the sound, down shifts, and eases to a stop in front of a general store. He hails an old man sitting on a lawn chair out front.
"'Scuse me, can you tell me where the nearest repair shop is?"
"Just down the street," the man says, pointing. "But they're closed for the night."
"Know a good place to stay?"
"Great little motel around the corner. Mountain View. They run a tight ship."
"Thanks, man," Rick says, giving him a wave. He starts the car again.
"Don't want to consult your little book?" she asks, fanning his guide.
"Locals always know best." He throws her a meaningful look. "And you never know who you might meet."
Once they park in front of the motel, he helps her detach her bike. While she rolls her two-wheeler to an open spot next to his Mustang, he struggles with putting the convertible top up, something catching on the latch.
"Can I try?" Kate asks and he steps back with a sweeping gesture.
"All yours," he says.
And then, he watches in wonder as she gives the top a couple quick jerks and it rises easily, snapping into place.
He bows down. "Teach me your ways, Obi-Wan."
"Just use The Force, Young Padawan," she says, hoisting the saddle bag from her bike over her shoulder.
"Star Wars fan?" he asks, grabbing his red duffel from the back seat. "You know, you do remind me a little of Darth Vader."
"And you're a carbon copy of Jabba the Hutt," she says as she breezes past him. "Trapping women into horrible situations."
"Sure you're not thinking of a ruggedly handsome space smuggler?" he teases, following her into the lobby.
She spins, walking backwards with a sort of confident swagger. "My mistake. You're totally a stuck-up, half-witted, scruffy-looking Nerf-Herder."
"Oo, nice one, Princess," he says, blowing air off his raised finger gun, and he swears he sees her smile as she turns away from him with an already-familiar eye-roll.
At the front desk, they each book their own room. To Kate's chagrin, they end up right next to each other.
"One might call this fate," he says, leaning against his door.
"I don't care what you want to call it. I'm just glad this day is over," she says, jamming her key into the handle.
"Going to bed already? It's early."
She pauses, "What do you care?"
"I don't know," he says, "I thought we were becoming acquainted. Maybe we could even be road trip buddies."
She expels a short laugh. "You need to work on reading social cues," she replies. "We," she points at him and back at herself, "Are complete and total strangers. And I'd like to keep it that way."
"There's a nice watering hole called the Museum Club not far from here. Built back in the early 1930s. They have live music. And it's rumored to be haunted," he says with a gleeful wiggle of his brows.
"You like that it's haunted, don't you?" she assesses with a hint of amusement.
"C'mon, what's not to like about ghosts?"
"I don't know, maybe because they don't exist?"
"A skeptic, I see." He steps close to her, his arm bracing on the door behind her like a high school quarterback cornering a cheerleader at her locker. "I'm happy to let you prove me wrong."
She stares him down, unperturbed.
"Are you here to annoy me?"
"That's not my intention. I'll leave you alone, if that's what you want." He pulls back, giving her space. "But it couldn't hurt to have a little fun," he challenges, his hair flopping onto his forehead.
Her hazel eyes bore into him.
He wishes desperately he could know what she's thinking.
"Fine," she says after a long moment. "But you're buying."