Home Run
"Okay, now you can look."
He removes the blindfold of his hands and lowers them to her waist as she takes in his graffiti-creation, which decorates the flat plane of a fuel tank on the underside of a Cadillac…a heart filled with a rainbow explosion of color and topped by their initials in neat, black print.
KHB + REC
Oh.
Off her silence, he surmises, "Too much?"
"What? No, that's not it," she hastens. "It's just…I'm so used to you acting like a twelve-year-old all the time, I was expecting something more juvenile. Or perhaps crude."
"Ye, of little faith," he chuckles. "So you like it?"
It's so fucking corny. So totally clichéd and sentimental. But it's one of the things she loves about him—the way he can spin sugary sweetness out of thin air like a cotton candy-maker. And she gets to sink her teeth into the fluffy, delectable floss. Feel the melt of it on her tongue and inside her heart.
"I love it," she murmurs, sinking into the wall of his body and skating her mouth to the underside of his jaw. Their vow of chastity is no longer in effect…per se. Inappropriate touching and anything resembling a real kiss is off the table (for now). Like her smoker's breath, Kyra's phantom still lingers, and she wants to wait until they both disappear before she officially crosses lines with him, but she doesn't want to restrict displays of affection overall.
Especially when her answer has him planting a small kiss on the bone of her shoulder and his arms wrapping around her, snuggling her closer and oh, God, she could never restrict the comfort of his embrace. It feels too good, always fortifying her with strength and a deep calm.
They'd left their jackets in the car, the baking heat of the day climbing higher and higher along with the climb of the sun in the sky. They're both in simple tank tops. Hers, black. His, white. Their exposed skin, slicked in sunscreen and sweat. The columns of their throats, saddled with bandanas for as-needed mouth-covers. Hers, purple. His, red.
"I know the standard is two initials, but I didn't want there to be any confusion about which KB I want." (Nice one, Writer Boy). "And I thought it might persuade you to tell me what the H stands for."
"I see," she hums. "Are you saying you're giving up?"
Guessing her middle name had become a game for him. He'd already ventured some popular options like Hannah, Hilary, Holly, and Helen. And a few less popular ones (Heidi, Hayden, and Hallie).
"Hazel?" he tries.
She shakes her head.
"Hippolyta?" he tries again.
"Hippo-what?"
"Queen of the Amazons, of course."
"Oh, of course." She huffs a laugh. "And still no."
"Damn." He sighs. "Harriet?"
"Nope," she says, popping her "p."
"Oo, what about Harley?"
"Oddly enough, I'm not named after my motorcycle," she chuckles.
"You're killin' me, Smalls," he growls into her neck.
She giggles and wriggles out of his hold, hands up. "Alright, alright. You've suffered enough."
"She knows mercy!" he cheers. She picks up a can of black spray paint from near their feet and hikes her bandana over her nose and mouth as she squeezes the nozzle and spurts letters over the thick suspension rod of the car. Once she's done spelling Houghton, he carefully sounds it out. "How-tin?"
She nods and drops her bandana back down.
"Same as Katharine Hepburn. She was my mom's favorite actress. Because of her fierce independence. And how she went against convention. Didn't take shit from anyone."
She can't see his eyes behind his Ray Bans, but his smile is warm and wide, any wisps of doubts about giving another piece of herself, immediately dissipating when he replies,
"It fits you perfectly."
He'd been nervous about showing her his "art," but her subsequent revelation and the snap and whir of her camera, documenting the heart with their initials, chases any uncertainty away.
She'd changed into a pair of dark wash cut-off shorts in his absence, exposing her killer legs and her wavy hair had been wrangled into a single, short French-braid. With her black tank, she looks like a real-life Lara Croft (arguably one of his favorite video game characters). And she's just as badass as the Tomb Raider. All that's missing is the utility belt. But she could probably still take down international treasure hunters and foil a supernatural plot with ease, if given the opportunity.
"I also think three initials is fitting because—" he starts.
"Three is your favorite number," she finishes. She turns toward him, lowering her camera. "Why is that anyway?"
"Rule of threes." Off her raised eyebrow, he elaborates. "It's a storytelling principle that suggests people better understand concepts, situations, and ideas in groups of three because of the way our brains cling to patterns. All good things come in threes, you know? Three fates. Stooges. Musketeers. Three days before Jesus rose from the dead." He gestures. "And of course, there's the three-act structure. Beginning, middle, and end."
She crosses her arms, almost as if she's impressed.
"That's surprisingly down-to-earth reasoning."
"And well, if you turn three on its side, it looks like a pair of boobs."
"And there's the twelve-year-old," she says with laughter in her voice.
He grins and steps toward her, playful and inquiring. "Do you have a favorite number?"
She bites her lip in the way that infuriates him. Like she knows exactly how much it drives him crazy. "I do."
He taps her criss-crossed arms like it'll unlock all the secrets she keeps so carefully vaulted up.
"Care to share?"
She considers him for a moment and then she's slinging her camera to hang at her back and snagging a can of yellow spray before rounding to the other side of the Cadillac.
When he sees the number she's tagged on the rooftop, he puffs a laugh.
"You just had to one up me, didn't you?"
She smiles, all cheeky and adoring.
"Students of Pythagoras believe four to be the perfect number. Guess that's why they call it the God number."
"Oh my god, you were in Mathletes, weren't you?"
"There are also four suits in a deck of cards, four directions on a compass, four phases of the moon—"
"Four seasons," he provides.
She nods, approving. Then wryly, she says, "Course in Chinese culture, four is associated with death and misfortune and considered very unlucky." She sets the spray can on the ground, her next words, tinged with remorse. "So I should probably pick a new number."
No. He can't watch the proverbial storm cloud of doom form over her head. Can't have her thinking they're cursed.
"Ah, but the Celtic priests in Ireland, more commonly known as the Druids, thought clovers with four leaves were best for warding off bad luck."
Her lips lift into a half-smile. "Got one of those on you?"
"No, but—" He scoops the can up and sprays the number three next to her four. Then, a plus and equal sign, followed by a seven, so that it reads 3 + 4 = 7. "Seven is considered to be a symbol of completion and wholeness. Of magic and divinity and power. Think seven days of creation. Seven continents, seven—"
"Days of the week," she tacks on.
He nods. "So as long as we stick together, it all adds up."
She snorts. "You're really proud of that one, aren't you?"
"It was the obvious solution," he jokes. She laughs again, and he imagines the storm cloud over her head vanishing with a poof. (The sweet power of pun never fails). "What'd you draw?"
That has her brightening and tugging him to the Cadillac at the other end of the row, where she presents him with her cute sketch of an elephant, drenched in turquoise. Her mom's favorite color, he recalls.
"It's not romantic or anything, but I wanted to do something in my mom's honor. We're big fans of elephants. She especially liked that they're some of the most compassionate and intelligent creatures. And that they have a thick skin and never forget."
He loves how excited she gets when she talks about her mom like this; how she glows with pride.
"And you?"
She smiles at him. "I just like feeding them peanuts."
He grins in amusement. Then motions at the elephant. "I think it's beautiful. Like proof she was here. And proof she still lives on through you." He beckons for the camera. "Let me get your picture."
She hands it off to him, but not before throwing her arms around him in a fierce hug and kissing his cheek in what he thinks is gratitude.
It's cruel and unusual punishment, is what this is.
She said they should ride separately to their next destination (undisclosed), so they could have a nice, little breather. Just an hour and a half apart. No big deal.
But it kind of felt like one. And okay, maybe he's being a little pathetic. But he just doesn't want to slow down their rapidly progressing momentum.
He probably shouldn't have dumped a half gallon of water on her. But it was hot out, so he really didn't think it would be an issue. And she already got back at him, soaking him with the other half gallon. Grinned radiantly as she threatened to strangle him in his sleep if he tried something like that again.
But maybe she's right. They both need some distance. Need to put their pasts firmly in the rearview.
His call with Kyra shattered the rose-colored glasses he'd been wearing for so long. Glasses that made him ignore the fractures in their relationship.
But he sees it all so clearly now (the benefit of hindsight)...how they didn't make time for each other; how they swept their issues under the rug and used the excuse of studying for finals and preparing for graduation to postpone talks of their future; how their lack of communication caused their wants and needs to fork in different directions, no longer on the same page.
The moment his book started flying off the shelves, everything that was familiar started slipping through his fingers and beyond his grasp. He hadn't been ready for the change. Hadn't been ready to let go. So he bought a ring.
But there's a reason he threw it in the Grand Canyon.
And she's burning rubber right in front of him.
He doesn't need to look backwards anymore. He's ready for change now; to let go. To move on and move forward.
Because Katherine Houghton Beckett deserves his full and undivided attention.
And oh, she has it.
She's pretty much had it since she arrived into his life in a cloud of dust on a hot and sunny afternoon.
God-fucking-damnit.
She doesn't want to spend time apart from him, but she practically almost jumped his bones back there. Him and his stupidly beautiful words, completely ruining her. (And hello, those biceps).
Before him, she was the girl with no future. She stopped making plans. Stopped thinking about next steps. Her mom died and her dad disappeared and she was just trying to get through each day. Put one foot in front of the other. She didn't care about her tomorrows.
But now…she's making plans again. Thinking about what the future holds and looking forward to her tomorrows. She doesn't know what she wants to do, who she wants to be, but she knows she wants to figure it out.
And maybe Castle's right. Maybe they'll continue to be amazing. Maybe they won't implode.
At least they're giving it a shot, right?
"A shamrock is specifically only three leaves of clover. St. Patrick used it as a symbol for the holy trinity. Father, Son and Holy Spirit. He also said they stand for faith, hope, and love. And the fourth leaf is where we get the luck from," the writer chatters as they walk past a sign for Shamrock, Texas, their current location.
Their next destination? The Conoco Tower Station and U-Drop Inn Café, a once popular stop for Route 66 travelers that offered fuel services and dining. Although built during the Great Depression, the joint gas station and diner was an opulent homage to art deco and came to be known as the "Taj Mahal of Texas."
When the route was decommissioned, the place fell into disrepair, eventually closing down sometime in the 80s. However, through community initiatives and preservation efforts, it was designated as a historical landmark and restored to its former glory just a couple years ago and adapted into a museum and visitor's center. The U-Drop Inn, which was named by an 8 year-old boy who won a contest, still operates as a small café. They supposedly serve a mean panini.
"You seem to know a lot of Irish stuff," she observes. She's back in her leather pants and jacket. (Shorts and motorcycles don't mix. Not unless you want exhaust burn).
"Research for a failed book idea. I had a leprechaun hire a private eye to find his lost pot of gold."
"Isn't that the plot to an episode of Moonlighting?"
"That was the inspiration, actually. But I had this twisted angle where the P.I. stumbled onto a dead body in a field of clovers and went on to unwind a larger conspiracy, rife with mystery and intrigue."
"Ah. You could've called it A Corpse in the Clover."
His mouth hangs open. "That is so much better than The Leprechaun's Revenge. I don't know why I didn't think of that. You're a fucking genius," he exalts. "I should re-pitch it to my publisher."
"Can I get a writer's credit?"
He loops an arm around her waist and drops a kiss to the top of her head. Her heart flutters and her stomach flips.
"We'll talk."
"Ah ha! I win!" he shouts, just after slurping up the last dregs of his chocolate milkshake. She sips slow and steady from her half-finished strawberry one with an eye-roll.
The inside of the café is quaint and classic with an art deco flair. Pastel pink countertops, foamy sea green booth seats, and a copper-tiled ceiling. There are also retro Coca-Cola napkin dispensers and their food comes with red-and-white checkered wax paper. And the AC is thankfully blasting full-bore, a welcome chill.
"It's not a race," she admonishes.
"But if it were, I totally just won," he argues. Not a beat later, his face is pinching together as he gasps in pain. "Ow, ow, ow. Brain freeze."
She smiles around a fork bite of peach cobbler. "Told you so."
He sticks his thumb to the roof of his mouth and she quirks a questioning eyebrow at him.
"Supposed to help," he answers in a muffled mumble.
She snorts a small chuckle and shoves her basket of fries at him.
"Eat something warm."
He follows her instruction and munches down on a few. Seemingly cured, he appraises her as he wipes the salt and grease from his fingers.
"Is this your official apology for stealing my fries?"
It seems impossible that four days ago she walked into the Wagon Wheel Restaurant and swiped the basket from his tray.
"You gonna apologize for staring?" she counters.
"I was mesmerized. There's a difference," he pouts adorably. Then he leans forward on his elbows, "I mean, do you know you have gorgeous eyes?"
She ducks her head, blushing furiously.
"Flattery will get you nowhere."
"Not even back with me in the Mustang? Sally misses you."
"Oh, the car misses me, huh?"
"The seat spring is fixed. And you said we need to get back to basics. Basics is you and me in the car. Together."
She chews her lip, considering. "Okay, fine. But only if you tell me why red is your favorite color."
He arches his brow.
"Back to basics, right? And this is a date. Cough it up."
He hedges. "Well, it's kind of a macabre reason…I don't want you to think I'm weird."
"Too late."
He puffs a chuckle as if to say touché. "Okay, um…I like red 'cause it's bold and passionate. Really grabs your attention, you know? It's the color of apples and roses, both popular fairytale motifs, and—"
"That's not macabre."
"Also, the color of blood. Part of the murder-mystery schtick. Not because I have a fetish or anything. Moreso because it's such a visceral descriptor. Like skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood. That kind of thing."
"Ah ha. So no vampiric tendencies I should be aware of?"
"Only some biting," he says with a wink. He sits back in the booth. "What's your deal with purple?"
She twirls a loose strand of hair around her finger.
"Do you know why it's associated with royalty?"
He shakes his head.
"Well, back in the day, purple dye was extremely hard to come by. So the only people who could afford to have anything purple were people of nobility. But the royalty part isn't necessarily why I like it." She pauses, mulling over her words. "I think I like it because it wasn't easy to find. It was…"
"Rare," he says quietly.
She meets his gaze and fuck, how does he do that? Stare right into her goddamn soul?
"Yeah."
The ever-present electric live-wire of tension between them snaps and sizzles. But this is not the time or place to jump his bones. She extracts a few bills from her wallet, throws them down on the table, and flashes him a teasing grin.
"C'mon. Let's get out of here, baby."
This is not what he had in mind.
The next part of their drive is two and a half hours. Their next stop: Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.
But the top is up and she's pillowed in the back bench with her legs stretched out, headphones on, and his book cracked open, scanning the inside flap, which he knows reads:
When rookie NYPD detective David McAllister is called to a crime scene on the Upper West Side, he finds a murdered Broadway actress and a seemingly open-and-shut case.
But when the main suspect commits suicide, McAllister senses there's something going on and refuses to let the case go. As he digs deeper into the murder, McAllister soon finds himself hunted by the most powerful people in the city. He must solve the case quickly—or find himself the latest victim of it.
When she asked him if it was alright for her to camp out in the back with her copy of In a Hail of Bullets, there was no way in hell he could deny her. She hadn't had a chance to fully relax or decompress in days. And he'd do anything to make her happy. Though he wishes she'd chosen a different activity. Reading his book while he's right there is a special kind of torture.
"Eyes on the road."
"How—?"
She lifts one of her earbuds.
"I'm not going to be able to get through it if you keep checking to see if I'm enjoying it or not."
"Well, are you…you know, enjoying it?"
"Castle."
"Right. Zipping it."
She lets the headphone cover plop back over her ear and returns to the novel, a faint smile on her lips.
And okay, maybe it's not the worst thing. He'd found a "golden oldies" rock station on the radio and it's enough just to have her near. Plus, she looks engrossed, which is kind of already the best compliment. In fact, he should take a picture. Gather proof he's got her hooked and use it to torture her back later. Her Nikon is tucked away somewhere, but he digs in the glove compartment for the disposable Kodak camera he purchased back in Santa Monica.
She just about murders him when the flash goes off.
He waves his hand to get her attention.
"What?" she huffs in irritation, knocking her headphones down.
"You said to let you know when I entered city limits. I don't know where I'm going. I need my navigator."
She sighs and marks her page. Somewhere past the middle, he notes. Over 150 pages. Impressive speed.
"What part are you at?" he asks as she climbs toward the front and slips into the passenger seat with the agility and nimbleness of a jungle cat.
"McAllister was just about to confront the D.A. about his possible involvement."
"Oo, that's—"
"If you're about to spoil anything, I highly suggest you rethink the end of that sentence."
He grins, pleased. "So you like it?"
"Not bad." She shrugs. "Vivid characters. Well-plotted. Pleasantly salacious." She points ahead. "Take exit 150A to South Shields Boulevard."
"C'mon, I wanna know what you really think," he says, merging into the exit lane. "Not the polite answer."
"Oh, yeah?" She twists her torso, reaching for the book, as he heads down the off ramp. She finds a passage and starts reading aloud. "Good,' he thought, as the wind gathered up his hair, 'No one will see my tears'." She looks at him when he pulls to a stop at a streetlight, all mirth. "How does wind gather hair? I'm just curious."
"Are you making fun of me?"
"Left here."
He complies once the light goes green, shifts gears, and turns the wheel on a forlorn sigh. "I know it's not Shakespeare."
He catches her shaking her head with a smile in his periphery. And then, he feels a hand on his shoulder and her lips in his ear, her voice, a low and sultry whisper. "It's really good, okay? So good I don't want to put it down."
Jesus-fucking-Christ.
It takes everything in him not to crash the car.
"Right on Reno Ave and then left on Mickey Mantle," she says, cool as a cucumber. As if she didn't just sink her claws into him. Demon woman. She really is going to be the death of him.
"Why do I know that name?"
"Mickey Mantle?" she asks. Off his nod, she says, "Every New Yorker knows his name. He's a famous Yankees player. One of the best sluggers of all time."
"Sports aren't really my thing. Especially baseball. I've never been to a game."
"Never?"
"Famously fatherless, hello? And my mother finds it dreadfully dull. Says it requires a certain lack of pulse."
"She just hasn't gone with the right person. There's a lot of nuance to it." She pats his thigh. "You'll find out soon enough."
"I will?"
"You will."
He turns onto Mickey Mantle and the Chickasaw Bricktown Ballpark stadium comes into view.
"Cause I'm taking you out to the ballgame, Writer Boy."
"That's the shortstop. The guy between second and third base. He's usually the best defensive player on the team. Has to be. 'Cause statistically, there are more right-handed hitters than left-handed ones and more balls go to the shortstop than any other position," she explains enthusiastically.
They've both changed into jean shorts, reapplied sunscreen, and switched into more sensible shoes. Her combat boots, replaced with her trademark purple Chuck Taylors, and his toffee brown Sperrys for his sleek, black Nikes.
Before they found their seats (right behind home plate), he'd stopped by a merchandise stand and bought them ball caps and jerseys for the Oklahoma City RedHawks, the hometown team. And a giant foam finger (duh). A Minor League team, the RedHawks are a favored underdog, despite not having won a game in 34 years. There's a rumor they're cursed (typical).
Today, they're playing against the Sugar Land Space Cowboys from Sugar Land, Texas, the reigning champions in the league.
"What?" she asks at his mesmerized stare.
"Nothing. I've just never seen you so excited about something."
She scrunches her nose in that adorable way of hers. "My family had season tickets to the Yankees and my dad's a card collector. He's got Honus Wagner, which is essentially priceless. There are only like sixty of them in existence."
"Did you ever play?"
"Why do you think I have a better arm than you do?"
He grins. "Didn't want to try out for the major leagues?"
She shrugs. "Quit before high school. Wasn't my dream."
"What was?"
Here, she falters. And he immediately regrets the question. She was pre-Law and now she's not. Her dreams, broken on a cold winter night by the spill of blood in a dark alley.
He's an idiot.
But she surprises him.
"Becoming the first female Chief Justice," she answers in a quiet murmur, looking down at the ground, and shit, he hates that he's dimmed her light and casted a shadow over the moment.
"Not bad," he says and some impulse has him kissing the slash of her cheekbone, which miraculously has her looking up and shining with a bright smile again.
"For it's one…two…three strikes, you're out! At the old, ba-a-a-a-a-ll game!" They scream-sing in unison with the rest of the stadium during the seventh inning stretch.
It's been a crazy, pulse-racing game. High-scoring, as Kate tells it. He's not sure if it's the perfect weather or the home field advantage or the energetic buzz of the crowd, but the RedHawks are in top form, keeping neck-and-neck with the Space Cowboys.
Personally, he thinks it's because Kate's shouts of encouragement are giving the players a little extra magic and pep in their step. Her cheering is one of the cutest things he's ever seen and he falls in love with her all over again. He's had a hard time keeping himself from kissing her every time their team scores, but otherwise, he's really starting to understand why baseball is America's favorite pastime.
Sure, the game gives you a heady-rush of adrenaline and gets your heart pumping at times. But it's all in the snacks. He's already eaten a hot dog, nachos, a soft pretzel, a box of cracker jacks, and some chocolate ice cream and sprinkles served in an upside-down plastic souvenir batting helmet. All washed down with a couple of ice-chilled beers. And about ten minutes ago, Kate had introduced him to some Big League Chew, which is pink bubblegum shredded into confetti-like pieces. It was sweet and sugary, but it had lost its flavor pretty quick and he'd spat the gob of it into a napkin before the big, traditional song (Take Me Out to the Ballgame).
And now the Jumbotron is spotlighting fans around the stadium.
But no one is more surprised than him when his face appears on the huge screen and the announcer cries out, "We have a special guest in today's crowd—debut author and mystery writer, Richard Castle. My wife, Eunice, is a huge fan. She says hello!"
He waves and smiles politely.
"I also have a message from a secret admirer here." The writer glances at Kate, nervous. "Apologies, folks, she asked if I could read it exactly as she wrote it." Wait a second. "Here goes—" The announcer clears his throat. "Hey, Wiseass. We've got a curse to break."
And then the border of the Jumbotron changes into a heart and zooms out to include Kate on the screen. Kiss Cam, lettering the bottom of it.
Hold on, what's happening?
He watches in a daze as Kate turns her hat around on the screen and then he has the wherewithal to actually look at her. "Really?" he asks, still a little dumbfounded. This is the girl who shies from public scrutiny; plays it close to the vest. And she's willingly making herself a public spectacle for him? He can't comprehend it.
She rolls her eyes, grabs his collar, and yanks him to her and oh, God, finally crashes her mouth against his, so beautiful and soft and wanting, tasting like peanuts and pink bubblegum and something rich and deep that he can't define.
Oh, finally.
Her lips are feverishly eager, her tongue searching and seeking, and he opens up for her.
Finally. Finally. Finally.
She moans.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
She just moaned.
He doesn't think a kiss has ever felt like this, so filled with passion and breathless longing that it soothes an ache in him he didn't even know was there. His core, a long-dormant volcano, finally erupting and molten lava spreading to the ends of his fingers and toes. His heart ablaze with it. With her.
Talk about a home run.
And not just any home run. No. The kind where all the bases are loaded and the player at bat hits it out of the park and they score four points. What did Kate call it? Oh, yeah. A grand slam. It's a grand slam home run.
They're devouring each other, starved and hungry, hands and lips everywhere, and he hauls her closer, hiking her onto his hips. She moves with him, so naturally in sync, her legs automatically tightening around his waist in blistering friction.
The crowd explodes.
"Woah, there! Let's keep it family-friendly, folks!" the announcer shouts.
But he doesn't give a fuck. Kate Beckett is kissing him and he's kissing her and it's better than he imagined. Worth every fucking second of waiting. His whole body, consumed by fire, hot and scorching and burning him from the inside out, until he's nothing but a flame of heat.
It's pretty much the best first kiss of all time.
And the cherry on top?
For the first time in 34 years, the Oklahoma City RedHawks win. By a margin of seven points, to boot.
Oh, but the real cherry on top?
The real cherry is when Kate Beckett drags him into a supply closet after the game, locks the door, shoves him up against it, and kisses him like he's solid ground.
(And lets him get to second base).
Best. Date. Ever.
xxx
A/N: Well, that only took seven months and over 100K words ;)
Thank you all for your patience and support. It's an incredible honor to have such invested readers, and we're just about half-way through our journey. My current outline is fluctuating between 45 to 50 chapters, so it's probably going to be another seven months and 100K until we reach the finish line, but I hope you'll buckle in for the ride and let me know your thoughts along the way. The ~real~ fun is about to begin!
Disclaimer: The Oklahoma City RedHawks are currently known as the Oklahoma City Baseball Club, and they've actually won five league championships.
Fun Fact: The Conoco Tower Station and U-Drop Inn served as inspiration for Ramone's Body Shop in the 2006 Pixar movie, Cars. Also, the logline for In a Hail of Bullets is real (in the sense that I ripped it straight from the Castle Wiki). And to my happy discovery, the Sugar Land Space Cowboys are, in fact, a real team.
Coming soon—Start Me Up