Maneater
Oh, here she comes
Watch out boy she'll chew you up
Oh, here she comes
She's a maneater
"Kate!" a voice shouts.
She looks up from the rack of cards in the hotel gift shop, searching for its source, but she doesn't spot anyone familiar.
Huh.
Castle is in line to cash her poker winnings and Gus is loading their bags into the car while she hunts down a suitable thank you card for Martha. (The actress said they were square, but her mother always stressed the importance of a thank you card.) Though she was having a difficult time finding something that said thanks for saving my depressed, alcoholic father from a nearly fatal street-brawl.
Some goofy Hallmark card with a cheesy slogan was definitely not going to cut it.
She gives up with a sigh and turns from the rack, only to nearly crash into someone—a pretty Black girl in a turquoise summer dress.
"I thought that was you," the girl says and Kate frowns in confusion as the girl adds, "You're looking in much better spirits."
"Sorry...do we know each other?" Kate asks nervously.
"Oh, you don't remember, do you?" The girl gathers. "We met last night after that big fight with your writer and we got drinks and you told me about your parents and…" she goes on, providing more details, seemingly trying to trigger her memory.
And the longer she stares, the girl chattering forth, the more bits and pieces actually do return to her.
Glimpses of a concerned face in a stairwell. A gentle hand wiping a cloth over her face in a bathroom. An eager arm dragging her to a bar. A tender voice offering soft consolation. A congenial bark of laughter. Everything fizzles and snaps and a metal cap pops off the glass soda bottle of her mind, freeing the bubbly memories trapped within.
Oh. Oh. Oh.
"Oh my gosh. Lanie. Of course," she says, throwing her arms around her guardian angel. "I'm sorry I didn't recognize you at first." She presses her close. "Parts of last night are a little fuzzy."
"I'd be surprised if they weren't," Lanie chuckles as they part. "You were pretty far gone."
"So far gone, I apparently told you my whole life story. Sorry for dumping that all on you."
"Girl, please. You saved me from having to dance with my Uncle Earl," she says, "Speaking of irritable family members, have you heard from your dad yet?"
"Yeah, actually," Kate says with a puff of irony. And she updates Lanie, telling the tale of her father's trip to the hospital in broad strokes.
"But he's gonna be okay?"
"For now."
"Well, damn. Your life is like a fucking soap opera. You've got hot people, medical scares, drama, and romance all rolled into one. To that point, what about Writer Boy? Last thing I know, he was walking off with you in his arms like goddamn Hercules after rescuing Megara's soul from the River Styx."
"As in Hercules from the Disney cartoon?"
"Oh, yeah. It was very erotic. Whole thing had me reaching for ice water."
"I'm so glad one of my lowest moments was such a turn-on for you," Kate laughs in disbelief.
"I'm just saying," Lanie says with a shrug. "There's some serious heat coming off you two. I mean, the guy is obviously crazy about you."
Kate scoffs. "He just got out of a serious relationship."
Lanie crosses her arms, unimpressed.
"Don't think I don't see through your little act." She wags a finger. "You're just as crazy for him."
"There's nothing going on!"
It's Lanie's turn to scoff.
"So you wouldn't be the least bit jealous about his dedication to Little Miss Almost-Bride?"
"What?"
Lanie fishes out a book from her tote bag. In A Hail of Bullets, the title reads. Oh. Castle's novel. Her new friend flips it open to the dedication page and shoves it at her, an eyebrow arched in challenge.
For Kyra Blaine, a believer. You make the stars shine.
Nausea roils in her stomach. Of course she's a believer. Who better to date Rick Castle than someone who reads into signs from the universe? Certainly not a skeptic.
"Nope. Not a bit," she says quickly. Too quickly.
Lanie smirks knowingly as she closes the book.
God-fucking-damnit.
"I don't think you have anything to worry about. He did throw her ring in the Grand Canyon."
"I told you that?" she asks, slightly awed. Rick Castle had pried her open with a crowbar and now it seemed like she was anything but closed-off. (Well, the Cosmo and shots probably helped).
"Told you what?" a third, familiar voice chimes in from behind. Speak of the devil.
"Nothing!" Kate and Lanie cry in sync, guilty perps as they whip to face the writer.
"Hey, Lanie," Castle says. "Nice to see you again."
"Under much better circumstances," Lanie says with a friendly nod and smile.
"Is that my book?" Oh, crap. "Are you guys gossiping about me?" he asks, gasping in delight.
"No, uh…I was actually just wondering if you could sign this for me," Lanie says, a little breathily, laying it on a little thick.
"No way! You're a fan?"
"Of the genre," Lanie smirks, while giving Kate a side-eye that says you're welcome for the save (again). She sends her new friend prayer hands, hidden from Castle's view, in silent thanks. Lanie flashes her a secretive wink as she distracts the writer with the pinch of her thumb and forefinger, "But you do have a real gift with the details of death."
"Thank you. It's all in the research," he says oh so humbly (such a martyr), his sharpie pen moving over the title page in a confident swish and twirl as he beams with a megawatt smile, his magnetizing celebrity persona on full display. A slicker version. The playboy. His gaze even flicks to Lanie's cleavage.
Lanie beams back at him with a flirtatious smile.
But Kate's not sure if it's just for show anymore. Wonders, with dread, if his charm is working its magic on her, too.
Okay! That's enough of this little charade.
"That's high praise coming from her," Kate interjects, beginning to feel like a third wheel. "Lanie's actually starting med school in the fall at NYU. Forensic pathology," she says, snippets of their conversation last night bubbling forth.
His eyes spark with interest.
"Shut the front door! My new character based on Kate is a forensic pathologist. Do you think I could pick your brain sometime?"
Oh, great. She's just hand-delivered his next muse. She thinks she's gonna be sick again.
"I was just about to give Kate my number, so we can stay in touch," Lanie says, handing her a slip of paper. Oh. That's really sweet. She wants to stay in touch? "But I think there's someone else you could talk to right now that might be better."
"Yeah?"
"There's a literature fair downtown at the plaza today. It's kind of one big book-signing thing where authors come from all over. And my personal hero, Dr. Joye M. Carter, is supposed to be there," Lanie says. "She became America's first Black chief medical examiner back in '92. She's performed thousands of autopsies. And she literally wrote the book on death. I'm on my way there now."
Castle gasps, "This is so kismet!"
"Or coincidence," Kate says automatically, glancing at him with a coded smile, but he doesn't meet her eye, seeming to have forgotten she's there, captivated by his shiny new toy.
"We're headed downtown, too. Why don't you ride with us?" he proposes eagerly. And it stings.
She knows this is just how he is. That he makes friends easily, and she's just being silly and irrational, but he's looking at Lanie like she's a goddamn hero, the Wendy to his Peter Pan.
And she can't blame him. Because Lanie is a goddamn hero.
It's petty and stupid…but Kate can't help but think she's just unwittingly been cast as his Tinker Bell, doomed to die simply because he's not giving her any attention.
Her feelings—never to be requited.
"Damn, where can I get my own sugar daddy?" Lanie mutters, examining the interior of the town car.
"He is not my sugar daddy," Kate mutters back.
"I can hear you, you know," Castle comments across from them.
Her cheeks redden and she hastily clears her throat. Musters up her most serious tone.
"By definition, a sugar daddy lavishes his riches in return for sexual favors. And we are definitely not sleeping together. Ergo, not my sugar daddy."
"Again, the definitely is a little uncalled for. But nice use of ergo."
"Yeah, the ergo really sealed the deal. Airtight argument," Lanie says, ribbing along.
"I prefer the term benefactor anyhow," he chuckles throatily.
Ugh.
"Well, you can benefact my way anytime," Lanie simpers.
Hey!
Kate bursts, "Can everyone just shut up?"
"Geez girl, we're just joking. No need to get so riled up," Lanie soothes. Her eyebrow lifts as if to say not jealous one bit, huh?
Oh. She was testing her.
Kate huffs.
Guess her new friend enjoys pushing buttons, too.
It's just…Lanie and Castle are the same age and they've already established such a fun and uncomplicated dialogue, so open and free.
No need to scratch and claw for every inch.
"Is she always like this?" Lanie stage-whispers, playfully shielding her face from Kate.
Castle leans forward, also shielding his face from her. Returns Lanie's stage-whisper, teasing, "You don't know the half of it."
Great.
Now they were bonding over her.
Fucking excellent.
He scribbles as fast as the wind, trying to get it all down.
Fascinating.
Just fascinating.
"Oh, I'm a huge fan of Poe, too. I even changed my middle name to Edgar because of him."
"Now that is dedication, young man," Dr. Carter chortles, her large silver hoop earrings swaying.
The former medical examiner is not what you expect of someone who's spent most of their life surrounded by dead people. Instead of cold and severe, she's all shiny and bright and warm smiles. A ray of light. Her given name of Joye, only too apt.
"I can't believe you almost decided to write murder-mysteries. What stopped you?"
"My life is already a murder-mystery and I thought my voice would be better used speaking for the dead," she says pointedly, gesturing to the stack of books titled I Speak For The Dead.
He grins.
"Right. Of course."
His Star Wars ringtone trumpets loudly. He holds up a finger to the doctor as she shares an amused look with Lanie, who sits next to him.
"Scuse me." He flips his cell open. "Richard Castle speaking."
"Kate Beckett speaking."
He gasps excitedly. "Oh my god, am I your first official call? What an honor. Your voice sounds even sultrier on the phone. Say something sexy."
"Turn around, you Big Oaf."
He rotates in his folding chair at a break-neck speed, the metal legs scraping off the ground. His heart jumps when he catches sight of her a few feet away, several shopping bags slung in the crook of her elbow.
She didn't run.
She'd been in a crabby, sulking mood earlier, and he knew it was partly because he and Lanie were having a little fun at her expense, but when he tried to ask her if something else was wrong, she'd just given him one of her mysterious, melancholy smiles and said she needed some time alone.
Unease had slithered over him when she suggested they separate for their errands, but he reluctantly agreed, seeing the wisdom in taking a breather. They were due for another one. They'd been through a lot in the last 24 hours. Hell, the last four days.
(Had it really been just four days? If it was currently a Thursday, and they met on a Monday, then yeah…it was four. Technically, more like three and a quarter. But it feels as if it's been weeks and months instead. What's that Einstein quote? Time is relative?)
"Let me see it! What'd you get?" he asks fervently.
She hangs up and approaches him with a honeyed smile tugging at her lips. She must've worked out whatever was bothering her.
"Oo, a Nokia?" He delights as he examines the turquoise brick. "These are supposed to be indestructible." He weighs it in his hand. "Light. Durable. And this model is the first phone with an internal antenna on the market, I hear. Good choice." He presses some buttons, the tiny screen lighting up and he gasps again. "You've got the Snake game on here? Oh, I'm sorry. But this is my phone now."
A peal of laughter from her. (Music to his ears). "We can work out shared custody." Her knee nudges the back of his chair. "Aren't you going to introduce me?"
"Right. Dr. Carter, this is Kate Beckett," he gestures, "Kate, this is Dr. Carter—writer and first board certified Black forensic pathologist in the US and the first Black American to be appointed as a Chief Medical Examiner in US history. They used to call her blood and pus. And she's worked for the Armed Forces, the Air Force, and even testified before the Supreme Court. How cool is that?"
"Very cool," Kate says, smiling and pushing her Aviators onto her head as they shake hands.
"He's such a charmer, this one. Handsome, too," Dr. Carter says good-naturedly.
"Please don't feed his ego. It's already the size of Texas."
Lanie and Dr. Carter chuckle like clucking hens. He pouts dramatically, which earns another round of clucks.
Kate drops her hand and it falls to rest on the back of his neck. He's not even sure she realizes it…he doesn't dare utter a word, lest she stop mindlessly running her thumb up and down his nape, skimming his baby hairs. It feels so good, and he's tingling all over, his heart racing at the sweet intimacy of it.
Her nails also lightly scratch on his skin, and if he didn't know any better, he'd say it's almost like she's marking her territory. That she's claiming him.
Oh, Kate Beckett can claim him anytime.
"You must be the infamous muse," Dr. Carter concludes. "Rick, she's even prettier than you said."
Kate's soft touch disappears as she gently smacks the back of his head.
"What did I say about calling me your muse?"
He puts his hands up in supplication. "Please don't break my legs. I still have to drive."
"Fingers, then," she decides, a hand cocked on her hip.
"You would threaten my livelihood like that? I'm a writer! How would I hold my pen or type with broken fingers?"
"I'm sure you could come up with a creative solution. Isn't that your whole thing? Or are you afraid of a little dictation," she says, her voice lowering to a husk.
Oh, she is evil. He stuffs both of his hands into his armpits.
"Some people would find it flattering, you know," he harrumphs.
"Flattering?" She crosses her arms. "If my old friends back home were to find out about this, do you know how much crap they would give me?"
He's about to fire back with another retort when Dr. Carter leans toward Lanie, loudly whispering. "Are they always like this?"
Lanie puffs a breath of air, derisive. "You don't know the half of it. These two are a walking fairytale."
"My favorite kind of story," the doctor says with a twinkling smile. "How long have you been together?"
"Oh, we're not—" Kate fumbles, her face flushing scarlet. "We're not together."
"Not yet," he blurts out.
She smacks the back of his head again. A little harder this time. Ow!
"Never," she corrects. "Just friends."
Dr. Carter and Lanie share a significant look, not buying it for a second. Ha.
Kate notes their exchange, and her face flushes deeper. Oh, how he loves to watch her squirm. She's usually so unflappable.
She tucks her hair behind her ears to regain her wits.
"You know, I, uh, interrupted your interview. I'm sorry. I should let you get back to it."
"We were actually just finishing up," he pipes in. "I'm running out of space in my notebook."
"Then you could definitely use these."
She plops one of her shopping bags onto the booth table. He takes an investigative peek inside and slowly extricates a brand-new set of travel-sized Moleskines, marveling at how each individual cover is a different color of the rainbow.
Woah. Kate Beckett bought him something?
His heart soars as he launches to his feet and engulfs her in a hug.
"These are awesome!" he exclaims and then, overwhelmed by the scent of cherries and unable to contain his jubilation, he darts a kiss to the side of her head, right on her temple. "Thank you," he says, quickly pulling away to avoid any potential consequence of his action, but she's not visibly recoiling or slapping his cheek in retaliation.
No.
Her eyes are gold pools of desire and god, he just wants to crash his mouth against hers; taste the ripe fruit of her lips, but—
No funny business. No funny business. No funny business.
He chants three times in a row as if it'll summon her dad like Beetlejuice and Jim Beckett will personally prevent him from doing something reckless.
Luckily, his phone rings instead.
Saved by the bell again, he thinks wryly. He steps off to the side to answer it.
"Scuse me, ladies. Gotta take this."
Kate sinks into Castle's empty chair, stunned, her fingers chasing the spot where he left his brief but electrifying kiss, her heart galloping, wild and untamed.
The two women stare at her.
She blinks. "What?"
"Good Lord, you could cut the tension with a scalpel!" Dr. Carter pronounces.
Kate moans as her head thunks to the table top.
"Can we please not talk about this?"
Dr. Carter huffs a laugh. "Would you like a copy of my book?"
She scans the description on the inside flap.
Dr. Joye M. Carter provides a frank discussion of the emotional turmoil family members cope with after experiencing the loss of a loved one.
"Oh, um…"
"I'm sorry for your loss," Dr. Carter says kindly.
Her brow furrows. "Did they say—"
"They didn't have to say anything. I've just been doing this a long time."
Christ. Does she have a giant signpost on her forehead that screams dead loved one?
"Uh, thank you."
Dr. Carter puts a sympathetic hand over hers. "You're allowed to find joy again, you know?"
Another sympathetic hand from Lanie centers on her back and her eyes burn with tears (geez, she was such a leaky faucet these days), the tender touch of both women filling her with an indescribable warmth. She manages a watery smile in reply as she slips a hand to Lanie's thigh for a grateful squeeze, overcome.
"I spoke for the dead once the wicked robbed them of their voices. But I didn't owe them my life. And you owe it to yourself to not let your grief rob you of yours," Dr. Carter says softly, "The people we love are never truly gone as long as you keep them in your heart. They're the small clear voices that will be with us always."
Joye's words root in her.
For months, she's been disconnected from the world, her life, everything pointless. She built walls, brick by brick, designed to shut people out because she thought it would be better to never let anyone in again. Better to never let herself feel again.
But then she met Rick Castle and her whole world changed. He brought a sledgehammer to the fortress around her heart and now she has people who care about her again; people she cares for, too. She'd forgotten what it felt like…this human connection, how raw and beautiful it can be.
She palms the wetness from her eyes, and the two women graciously give her the space to recover as the next beat of her heart whispers, Still here, Bug.
Castle bounds back a moment later and she swiftly knocks her Aviators back down over her face.
"That was the mechanic. Our vehicles are ready for pickup. Ready to get this show on the road?" he asks, clapping his hands together for enthusiastic effect.
His infectious energy zips to her lips and a huge grin splits her face.
And then, adopting a Southern accent, she responds,
"Why, I thought you'd never ask."
"You prepping for the apocalypse?" she asks, amused, as he slams his trunk closed and wipes his hands together.
They stopped by one of those big warehouse stores on their way out of town, and he probably bought enough emergency supplies and camping equipment to last them close to 40 days and 40 nights.
"You laugh, but Y2K will be upon us by the end of this year. It's always good to be prepared for the worst case scenario. And you heard the mechanic. They tried to patch up my engine best they could, but it's basically running on fairy dust as it is. You don't want to get stuck in the desert with no food or water if it breaks down, do you?"
Her bike had been fully restored, shining and gleaming and roaring with life. His car, on the other hand, hadn't received a similar clean bill of health. Apparently, his engine is on death's door.
The mechanic and his team had worked tirelessly in the short time frame to install new upholstery, rewire a replacement radio and tape deck, change the tires, and buff out all the dents and scratches. But there weren't enough hours for the paint job that Castle had hoped for. They only started the process by stripping the car down to its base layer.
So the interior looked as if it was straight from The Jetsons, modern and futuristic, but the exterior was something out of The Beverly Hillbillies—a veritable bucket of rust.
"If your engine fails, we could just take my bike to the next town and get a tow. Also, Y2K is just a conspiracy theory."
"So you're saying there is a scenario in which you and I ride your bike together? Suddenly, I'm rooting for Sally to go kaput."
He begged and pleaded for a quick spin on her bike back at the shop. But she told him no way in hell. She didn't let anyone touch her bike without her say so. And that included cocky writers trying to cop a feel.
"Sally?"
"I had to name her. It's like the song, Mustang Sally."
She rolls her eyes as she clips on her helmet.
"And Y2K is a very real thing," he argues. "Economists and programmers have been trying to warn us since the 80s. Our computer technology is not prepared for the new millennium," he says, insistent. "There's a bug in the system that's gonna shut down our entire infrastructure come turn of the century. Just you wait."
He buckles into the driver's seat and adjusts his rearview mirror.
"Nothing's gonna happen," she says, kicking back the stand on her bike.
"That's not what the news is saying. 60 Minutes did a whole segment. The banks, the power grid—they're all gonna collapse. Planes are gonna drop from the sky. Nuclear missiles might launch on their own. There'll be food shortages. Mass rioting and looting. It'll be the end of the world, Beckett. End. Of. The. World."
"And yet, you sound giddy," she chuckles heartily, inserting her key into the ignition.
"Think of all the story possibilities! Haven't you ever wondered what it would be like if you survived Doomsday?"
He sticks his key into the Mustang's ignition.
She straddles her bike. Smirks, impish.
"I don't have to wonder. Every day with you, I survive doom."
"Oh, you think you're real funny, don't you?"
She turns her key and revs her engine in response.
He attempts to start his car, straining, but there's no resounding hiccup or cough. Only a repetitive string of dead clicks.
"You're trying too hard!" she yells over the noise. "Just let her come to you."
He starts over.
Engages the clutch, while easing the rotation of the ignition, slow and steady.
The engine kicks to life, thundering loudly.
He whoops cheerfully, "Thatta girl!"
She revs her engine again, adding to the symphony of revelry.
And then, she's pulling out of the parking lot, taking the lead, the writer following not far behind.
Next stop: Amarillo, Texas.
Well, technically, Amarillo was their final destination for the next leg.
She and the writer had come up with a travel system—they decide on a final destination for each day together and separately choose two tourist stops along the way.
Something for her. Something for him.
The writer had tried to lobby for more detours, but she said if they were gonna make it to Chicago on time, they needed to keep to a strict schedule. No dilly-dallying and lolly-gagging. He'd muttered something about the "fun police" and she ended up allowing him a Wild Card option with the caveat he could only use it once the entire trip.
When Gus mentioned there were specialty car restoration shops in Amarillo and the town famously hosted a Route 66-themed summer celebration, it had been an easy choice.
Their first stop of the day had been her decision. The Blue Hole (known to the locals as Agua Negra Chiquita) in Santa Rosa, New Mexico is located a couple hours outside of Santa Fe. It's the hottest summer on record, according to Gus, and she figured they could use some cooling off.
Castle had been torn. He'd wanted to visit some of the ghost towns that were littered along the roadside, but he eventually landed on Adrian, Texas, a little blip of a town that was considered the half-way point for Route 66. It was important to him that they commemorate such a critical milestone in their journey.
She glances back at him.
Smiles when she finds him banging his head to what she thinks is Born To Be Wild by Steppenwolf. He's blasting the music as loud as possible, so she can listen along, but the throttling roar of her engine and the reverberating whip of the wind make it a little difficult to hear at times. She also stays a couple car lengths ahead so if she needs to stop abruptly for any reason, they don't run the risk of any head-on collisions.
He catches her checking on him and throws out a thumbs up. She sends him a thumbs up back as she refocuses her attention on the road ahead. The hand signal system they devised is pretty simple and straightforward. Thumbs up is all good. A fist is need to stop for food or bathroom. And a middle finger?
Well, that one's self-explanatory.
Her mind drifts to her parting conversation with Lanie.
They made plans to see each other when she and Castle arrived in Chicago, which happened to be Lanie's hometown (total coincidence).
In the meantime, the med student had demanded that Kate keep her updated on their adventures.
"I've got a pool going with Joye and Gus. We're all betting on you two. Joye thinks Writer Boy is gonna make the first move, but my money's on you, girl."
"Me? Why?"
"Because he's waiting for you. Ball's in your court, honey."
"Waiting?"
"Look, I know you're dealing with stuff and so is he, but if the way he acts around you is any indication, that boy is ready to dive all the way in."
Kate bites her lip.
"But what if it ruins everything? I just…I don't want to lose what we have, you know?"
"Girl, please. What exactly do you have, really?"
"A friendship."
"No. What you and I have now is a friendship. What you and Castle have is a holding pattern. How long can you circle each other before the fuel runs out?"
How long, indeed.
He misses having Beckett in the car with him but he certainly doesn't mind his new view of her from behind—a sleek and glossy panther.
To keep his mind occupied, he has a functioning radio and if he loses reception, a crate's worth of newly purchased cassette tapes.
He thinks of Dr. Carter's parting words to him…
You should kiss that girl while you're both still young.
But he can't. No. His job is to protect her. Get her home safe and sound. He promised her dad. And he was hell-bent on not breaking any more promises.
But that doesn't mean he can't fantasize about it.
When June presents Chase with a ream of rainbow-colored travel Moleskines, he stares at her, in awe. This must be what forgiveness from June Winter looks like.
When she'd found out he was writing an article about her, outside of their joint investigation, she'd been ready to cut ties with him. But he'd apologized, said it never needed to see the light of day; that the only thing he cared about was her.
It wasn't until he'd told her what made him become a true crime reporter in the first place (the unsolved disappearance of his father) that they'd tumbled back into bed with a hot and passionate fury.
But when he kisses her this time, in gratitude, it's sweet and delicate and different from their other kisses, which are usually saturated with pure lust and carnal desire. No. This kiss speaks to a softer, deeper passion. If he didn't know any better, he'd say it was a kiss of love. Because believe it or not, he'd fallen for the girl made of ice, her inner fire thawing out his cold heart.
Oh, fuck.
Oh, no.
He was falling for her, wasn't he?
Like really, really falling.
Shit.
"Oh, wow, that's deep," she comments from the small cliff ledge that serves as a jumping-off point for swimmers.
She wears a utilitarian red one-piece. He made a Baywatch joke when they were applying sunscreen (because of course she still makes a one-piece look sexy as hell), and she said it was actually an old suit from her time as a lifeguard during her first semester at Stanford, a work-study job.
He joked she could resuscitate him anytime. She threatened to let him choke.
"Visibility is over a hundred feet down," he provides. "Because of the cave systems beneath, the water completely renews itself every six hours so it's never the same lake twice, but the temperature never changes. It's a constant 62 degrees."
Once known as Blue Lake, the Blue Hole is a sparkling sapphire oasis surrounded by a few green-brown shrubs and trees. It's one of seven sister lakes connected underground by a vast network of water; a sinkhole born of a geological phenomenon called the "Santa Rosa sink." There's no water like it anywhere—so clear and crystalline—for miles and miles around. It's rumored to have magical properties.
"62 degrees? What're we waiting for? Let's jump in."
"Together?" he asks, holding out his hand. Platonic touches were okay, right?
She hesitates a moment before clasping her hand with his, her lips twitching with a small smile. His heart flips.
"On three?" she suggests.
He nods.
"One, two—"
He surfaces in a graceful arc, water droplets flying, his head thrown back like the Little Mermaid, a transfixing tableau of youthful beauty.
She's reminded again of Lanie's earlier assessment...goddamn Hercules. The gorgeous golden boy, who's been offered the gift of immortality.
And she, Megara, the double agent for Hades, a heartless mortal; his downfall.
"Oh, I feel reborn!" he cries out, running his hands through his hair, triceps and biceps flexing. (Those biceps).
Goddamn Hercules.
The lake-plunge is a spiritual experience, a baptism, the cool water a heavenly contrast to the hellish heat of the day, cleansing her of everything she was before.
No longer the broken girl with the broken motorcycle.
"You don't look any different to me. I just see a big baby, like always," she taunts, treading water, her heart pounding, loud and hard.
Friends. They were friends.
Just friends.
The pounding quiets.
"Oh, you are so getting it for that!" he shouts, just before he splashes her.
"Castle!" she shrieks, swimming away, slicing through the water expertly.
He chases after her, not far behind.
She pauses, splashing him back in an attempt to slow him down.
But it only emboldens him to lunge forward in an effort to dunk her. On instinct, she dives out of his path, and emerges a few feet away, free from his potential snare.
She swims off, stroking backward, smug and victorious.
And she's so focused on her escape, she doesn't see the underwater ledge of stone and her left foot whacks the rock face, hard, her embattled ankle, blooming with new, sharp pain.
Icarus, thwarted from the sun.
"Fuck!" she yells, her body jerking into a pseudo-fetal position as she compulsively cups her knees.
Castle halts his pursuit, features etching with concern.
"You okay?"
She bites the inside of her cheek, eyes stinging, shaking her head vigorously, bobbing awkwardly as she tries to stay afloat, one arm egg-beatering.
"Hit my ankle. Hurts."
So much for not being broken.
"Can you swim?"
She attempts movement of her left foot and air hisses through her teeth. Ow, ow, ow.
"Okay, okay. Hop on. I'll take us back to shore," he says, presenting his back as a perch.
When she doesn't roost on him right away, he glances over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow.
"You've got a better idea?"
"If you wanted to cop a feel, you could've just said so," he says, swimming forward in smooth, even strokes, towing her on his back.
She tugs on his ear lobe, more affectionate than admonishing.
"Still incorrigible."
Her no touching rule is becoming more and more impossible to enforce, and she's starting to think it's a futile endeavor anyway. Obselete.
She's too addicted to the feel of him already, each innocuous point of contact, a hit of heroin, sending her higher and higher into oblivion.
Holding onto him, sealed against his skin—her nirvana.
"This reminds me of that fable," he says.
"Which one?"
"You know, where the scorpion asks the frog to carry him across the river, but the frog is afraid the scorpion will kill him with his sting. So the scorpion argues that he would drown, too, if he stung the frog. It wouldn't be in his best interest."
"Mutually assured destruction."
"Exactly. So the frog agrees to carry him. But about halfway across the river, the scorpion stings the frog anyway. As they both start to sink, the frog asks the scorpion why he did it and the scorpion replies: It's in my nature."
She blows out air, a tutting scoff.
"What's the moral of that supposed to be? People can never change? That's bullshit."
Does he think she'll never change? That she'll run at the next sign of trouble?
"I think it means some people can't ignore their baser instincts. But I believe everyone has the capacity to change if they want to," he says.
Okay. So maybe there's hope for both of them.
"Don't worry, Castle. I won't sting you, but I do bite."
She playfully chomps her teeth by his ear with a little growl for emphasis.
"Oh, that's good," he chortles. "I'm gonna put that one in the book."
Her next laugh is cut short by a loud cry from the approaching grassy shore.
"Help! Help! Does anyone know CPR?"
"You just couldn't stay away, could you? Face it, Beckett. You can't resist me."
Her bike is back in the caddy and she's back in the passenger seat, her ankle propped on the dashboard again. She swallowed down some Tylenol and applied an ice pack to the re-swelling injury.
"You caught me, Castle. I really missed your scintillating commentary."
"And I really missed your seductive voice. Please repeat scintillating. Soft and slow."
"You like that? You should hear me say fallacious," she says, a little breathily, laying it on thick.
He groans theatrically. "You're killing me, Motorcycle Girl."
She bites down on a grape, the cool, sweet flavor bursting on her tongue, a smiling fool.
They had originally planned to picnic by the lake, but she was suddenly very popular after her public rescue of the little boy who nearly drowned and who happened to be none other than Castle's nemesis from the Santa Fe art market, Blitzkrieg. And she couldn't handle being the center of attention. She wasn't worthy of it. They all hailed her as some hero, but she was just a girl who knew CPR.
Castle extends his hand, a silent ask, and she soundlessly dumps a few grapes into his palm. He pops them between his teeth all at once, messily chomping, juice spilling from the sides of his mouth.
What a fucking dork.
Such a little boy sometimes.
She snorts, taking a napkin, and reaches up to wipe the rivulets running over his chin.
His lips accidentally graze her knuckles, and her heart stutters. She rapidly retracts her arm.
"Thanks. You're a life-saver," he says, amused. (Maybe not so accidentally). "And I mean that literally and figuratively. You're up to three real lives saved, Superman."
Not this again.
"You and Penny barely count. Safety was on. And Jason wasn't all me. That was your save, too. You got me there in time, Wonder Woman."
"Maybe we should come up with our own superhero names. Oo, I know. Writer Boy and Motorcycle Girl."
"Those don't make any sense. What would our powers be? Writing and riding motorcycles?"
"Okay, yeah. You're right. The names should match the powers. So if your powers are kicking asses and taking names, then…wait…that could work—Kickass!"
"Kickass? That's the best you could come up with? You know, I've got a superhero name for you. Wanna hear it?"
"Why do I have a feeling I'm not gonna like it?"
"I don't know. I think Wiseass has a nice ring to it."
"Actually…I don't hate it," he says, contemplating thoughtfully. "We need a signature line." Then, cupping a hand around his mouth, he proclaims,
"Look out world, here come the asses, Kick and Wise! She's armed and he's dangerous!"
Adrian, Texas is little more than a main street and a few downtrodden mom-and-pop shops.
"Oh, here she comes," Castle sings.
"Stop that."
Maneater by Hall & Oates had just been on the radio and he was claiming it was the perfect superhero theme song for her. She told him his was You Talk Too Much by Clarence Carter.
"Watch out boy, she'll chew you up," he continues.
She yanks the door open to the small cafe gift shop that peddles in halfway point souvenirs, not having it. A jukebox plays quietly in the corner and vintage license plates from various states hang on the walls. The two hour car ride had been good respite for her ankle, her foot swaddled in her compression sock again.
Castle zeroes in on a front display table that has maps, travel guides, and roadside reads, including—
"My book! That is so cool," he crows in delight, grabbing one from the stack. "Interested in a copy?"
She glances at the price.
"14.99?" she reads aloud. "Bit steep," she jokes.
"I'll buy it for you. A gift. And I'll sign it. Or if you prefer, I also sign chests."
"Pervert."
"That's Cowboy Pervert to you," he says, tipping his hat. Gus had gifted him with a black Stetson, saying he needed to be properly outfitted heading into Texas. She'd gotten a white one, but there was no way she was putting it on. It looked absolutely ridiculous.
"Do you always have to be so intractable?"
"I love it when you talk dirty to me."
She rolls her eyes, tamping down a grin, as she picks up another copy and flips it to the backside, where there's a black-and-white author photo of him. He has one hand fisted under his chin, a mischievous smile curling at his lips.
"Oh my god, Castle, you're so cute!"
"Cute?" He balks. "Don't you mean handsome and debonair? Refined but rugged?"
"Positively adorable."
"Now you're just being cruel."
She smirks.
"Wait 'til you hear what I really think," she says, walking toward the register, his book under her arm.
"On second thought, you definitely shouldn't read it."
He tries to snatch the book from her grasp. She hides it to her chest, out of reach.
"What, Castle, can't handle a little heat?" she teases, almost running into the cashier's stand.
"From you? I'm not sure I'd survive it," he says, a kicked puppy.
Her next quip is interrupted by the cashier and his exclamation of,
"Kit-Kat?"
Kate stares at the boy behind the counter, her jaw hanging open.
"Rogan O'Leary?"
"You two know each other?" Castle asks, intrigued.
"Barely."
Blurry memories stitch together in her mind. Neon lights. The Las Vegas strip. A drive-thru wedding chapel.
Her stomach drops. No.
She glances at Rogan's left hand. Sure enough, there's a thin, silver band around his ring finger.
"Who's the unlucky girl?" she asks tentatively, gesturing.
Rogan sticks his hand behind his back.
"Oh, uh…"
"No," she gasps.
"So you do remember," Rogan says with a shit-eating grin.
"Remember what?" Castle presses.
Her brain is short-circuiting. A bug in the system. "Did we—Are you—Am I—" No. No. No. This can't be happening. "Why are you walking around with that? Do you seriously think we're married?"
"Woah, what?" the writer reacts.
She faces him. "It was a drive-thru chapel in Vegas. A gag thing. It wasn't real," she explains. Then, doubtful, "Right?"
"Oh, those are very real," Castle says gleefully.
"No. No, they're not," she rebuts, tendrils of panic setting in. Married. She was married. No. Not possible. "I broke up with you. We broke up," she says to Rogan.
"But we're great together," Rogan whines.
"We are not together," she says vehemently. "You are a compulsive liar, degenerate, and not to mention, a thief."
"Don't be like that, Kit-Kat," Rogan tuts.
"Yeah, Kit-Kat. Don't be like that," the writer coos teasingly. Wiseass.
"He stole my mother's ring and sold it at a pawn shop to cover a bad bet he made."
All trace of humor vanishes from Castle's face and he immediately fists a hand in Rogan's shirt, jerks him close, his voice, a low, menacing growl, "You did what?"
Alarmingly, she finds it attractive, the way the writer is instantly ready to defend her, all fire, like he wants to burn the whole place down with Rogan inside—without a doubt, the hottest thing she's ever seen. No one's had her back like that before.
But she can fight her own battles.
"Stand down," she chides, pulling Castle off her quivering husband.
God-fucking-damnit.
She has a husband.
"You want him taken care of? I know a guy," Castle offers, watching as she bites her goddamn lip (the infuriating way), as if she finds his suggestion foolhardy, yet sweet.
"I think I can take him," she assures him, soft laughter in her voice. He hasn't heard that laugh yet. He mentally files it away in the folder marked, Favorite Sounds of Kate Beckett.
"Stepping out on me already, dear?" Rogan asks, stealing her attention.
Oh, he hates this guy.
"Thing is, I'm not a cheater. Why the hell are you wearing that ring?" she demands.
"I tell people my wife was in an accident and got stuck in a coma. Chicks really dig it," Rogan answers.
"That's brilliant," Castle voices, unthinking.
Beckett shoots him a withering glare.
Oops.
"In a sick and twisted kind of way," he rectifies.
She directs her ire back at Rogan.
Whew.
"I am not your wife," she spits.
"We consummated. Several times. You were a total hellcat."
"Excuse me?" she seethes, rage visibly crawling over her.
But Rogan doesn't see it—blind to the twitching curl of her fingers against her palm, the hardened bite to her cheeks (her teeth no doubt gnashing together), and her eyes conflagrating with a dark flame of fury.
Oh, Rogan better watch out what he says next…
"What do you say we ditch Pretty Boy here and take another spin for old time's sake?" he leers. Then, scoffing, "I mean, are you really going to say no to your husband?"
Stupid, stupid boy.
He almost feels sorry for the guy, but he obviously doesn't know who he's dealing with.
This is Kate fucking Beckett. And she doesn't take any shit. Especially not from some low-rent, liar-degenerate-thief.
With the striking glance of a cobra and the hot, combustive rage of rocket boosters, her right fist blasts straight into the douche's face with the satisfying crack-and-crunch of bone against bone.
The poor fool drops like a stone.
Castle's hands liftoff to cover his mouth in shock.
"That was amazing!" he gasps, muffled.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
Without a doubt, the hottest thing he's ever seen.
She crouches down to Rogan's level, a huntress examining a wounded animal that still sputters with sparks of life, and grabs his chin with her left hand, forcefully jerking it down.
He yelps in pain.
"Hey, honey?" she simpers, overly sweet and saccharine. Terrifying.
Rogan whimpers as her grip tightens.
She leans in, cold and deadly. "It will always be no. And you are not and never will be, my husband, got it?"
A ripple of pain shudders through Rogan.
"But you wanna know the one hot…wild…kinky thing that I do wanna do with you?" she husks, nearing his face with each punctuated adjective, a purring jaguar. No, wait.
A hellcat. Ha. Don't summon her if you can't handle it when the claws come out. What an idiot.
(Thank god it's not him this time).
Rogan doesn't respond, likely too scared to move or make a sound.
She sharply jerks his chin again, a silent command to answer her.
"Aghhh, what! What do you wanna do?!" He cries out in agony. "Please," he sobs. "Just tell me!" he begs.
She releases her paw and thrusts both of her middle fingers at him.
(So fucking hot.)
Her lethal voice, the final kill of the hellcat huntress, the kickass maneater.
"I wanna fucking divorce."
I wouldn't if I were you, I know what she can do
She's deadly man, and she could really rip your world apart
Mind over matter
The beauty is there but a beast is in the heart
xxx
A/N: First of all, the "Rogan O'Leary" storyline has bugged me since the day it aired on May 12, 2014 and when I decided to include it here, I was thrilled to let Beckett throw the punch she should've thrown on our screens nine years ago. I hope it was equally as satisfying and therapeutic for you to read as it was for me to write.
Secondly, Dr. Joye M. Carter is a REAL person and every fact mentioned about her is true! When I was building Lanie's backstory, I wondered who might've inspired her to join forensic pathology, and I ~fatefully~ stumbled upon the indomitable Dr. Carter.
My jaw dropped when I read in her bio that she's not only a badass pioneer in her field, but also a writer who discusses grief in her books and is obsessed with Edgar Allen Poe and fairytales and once considered becoming a mystery novelist. Basically a real-life Castle. LIKE ARE YOU KIDDING? Where's her TV show?
Disclaimer: I Speak for the Dead was technically released in 2002, but we can't have it all, can we? Also, please know that any mention of special weather events (i.e. hottest summers, etc) are completely made up and for pure dramatic effect.