Amarillo, TX
"Nice doggy. Good doggy," Castle chastens from the hood of the tow truck he's scrambled onto, his hand clutching strips of his torn pants.
Tate (Tildy's rottweiler) had sniffed out the beef jerky in his back pocket, lunged for it, and annihilated the material of his jeans, ripping through it like tissue paper.
Tildy, a young brunette with electric blue eyes, barks out a harsh command and the dog immediately heels, suddenly docile, his tongue wagging as if he'd just been frolicking through a meadow.
"Sorry 'bout that. Jerky makes him a little haywire. He's usually such a sweetheart, bless his heart." Tildy scratches between Tate's ears, smiling beseechingly.
Yeah, bless his little heart, the writer thinks wryly, his backside smarting as he slides down, wary of his new foe.
He glances at Kate. She's smothering a laugh behind the bones of her knuckles.
Great.
Couldn't he win, just once? Was it really too much to ask?
It's like he's cursed.
Wait…hadn't Kate said something earlier about being cursed?
He whisks a fresh pair of pants from his duffle and yanks them over his lime-green Scooby-Doo print boxers as Tildy directs Tate to hop onto the front passenger seat of the tow truck.
"I meant to say earlier—nice underwear," Kate teases, leaning out of the rear side passenger window.
He zippers his fly shut and turns toward her. "Checking me out, Cowgirl?"
Her mouth bends in a smirk and she opens the door for him. "Big fan of Scooby-Doo? You know, you do remind me a little of him."
He climbs into a seat next to her on the back bench. "Oh, c'mon. I'm obviously Fred."
"Does that make me Daphne?"
"Oh, totally." His hand skirts her bare knee. "You're hot and smart with long legs and a short purple dress—" His fingers flirt up her thigh and her pupils dilate.
"Ruh roh, Cowboy," she warns with breathless caution. "You're meddling with the rules."
Right. Rules. Vow of chastity. No kissing. PG-touching only.
But now that he knows she wants this just as much as he does? Now that he knows what her mouth feels like on him? How she tastes?
Pure torture.
"Sorry." His hand changes course and rises to form a parenthesis over her cheek. "What I meant to tell you was, you're prettier than a speckled pup in a red wagon."
She laughs on a groan and ducks her head onto his shoulder. "There's no way that's an actual saying."
"Is, too! Tildy, help me out here."
"Oh, it very much is," Tildy confirms as she buckles into the driver's seat and places a familiar spray of daisies on the dashboard.
"You caught the bouquet? Who's the lucky guy gonna be?"
The rottweiler growls at the writer and he balks. Tildy chuckles.
"You ain't gotta worry, Tater Tot, anyone can see plain as day Rick's already spoken for." She scratches under Tate's chin and he whines in contentment. "I got my eye on someone else anyway."
The blue-eyed brunette shoots Kate a look in the rearview mirror as she shifts into gear and pulls out onto the road.
"Is it true Rogan O'Leary's gettin' a divorce?"
The tow truck lurching to a stop stirs Kate from her nap.
"Are we there yet?" she murmurs blearily.
"Just arrived, Sleeping Beauty," he says. "And feel free to use me as a pillow anytime."
She'd conked out a few minutes into the drive, and he'd spent a glorious forty minutes with an arm around her, cocooning her to his side, watching her sleep (in a totally non-creepy way). He was just making sure she didn't have any nightmares. He'd even dusted his lips across her hair and murmured sweet dreams into the shell of her ear, as if to cast a protective spell over her. And from what he could tell, despite the somewhat awkward position, she'd had a restful slumber. No brow furrowing or tossing and turning, her body, a warm and heavy weight against his.
"Where are we?" she grumbles as she lifts her head from the nook of his neck and rubs the grit of drowsiness from her eyes. There's a slam of a car door as Tildy exits with Tate on her heels, jolting Kate slightly. She finally registers their close proximity and quickly peels from him, a light blush tinging her cheeks. He grieves the loss of contact but offers her a kind smile.
"The motel. Tildy's dropping us off and then taking the car to Gene's shop. Want her to leave your bike behind?"
Kate arches her back in a cat-like stretch and he loses his breath for a moment. He's in hell. He has to be. And she's a demon masquerading as an angel, because how the fuck is he supposed to control himself when she contorts like that, right in front of him?
"We need a way to get around while we're here, don't we?"
He blinks. We?
"You gonna let me ride with you?" he asks, eager with hope.
She reaches for the door handle, but not before flashing him a mischievous look.
"Might even let you cop a feel."
Oh, yeah.
Definitely a demon.
Bea had called an old business school friend who managed a local motel—The Big Texan Motel—to be exact. It was a family-owned place that had been around for generations. True to its name, it's big and Texan. There's a comically large model figure of a bull stationed at the front to "welcome" guests, at least five Lone Star flags flying high, and the facade is something straight out of a Western. It's painted bright yellow with blue trim and he's reminded that...
"Amarillo is Spanish for yellow," he comments off-handedly, looping the strap of his duffel bag over his arm. They'd sent Tildy off with hearty thank yous and Tate had given Kate an enthusiastic goodbye, licking her face with vigor when she'd bent down to scrape her nails through his glossy black coat. She'd erupted into a fit of giggles and cried out he's so cute! He was thrilled to see her so happy, but he didn't think he'd ever been so jealous of a dog before.
"You speak Spanish?" Kate asks, parking her bike in an open spot.
"Eh, sí. Mano a mujer."
Her forehead wrinkles as she unties her saddlebag and hauls it to her shoulder.
"Hand to woman?"
He lets out a theatrical sigh.
"If you say so."
And snags her hand. She smiles, seals their palms together, and weaves her fingers through his. His heart jumps with joy. Take that, Tate.
"I can't wait until we go to bed," she yawns, listing into his side and softly bumping against him.
He puts his free hand to his chest in mock scandalization.
"Why Katherine Beckett, I never."
She giggles, a soft snort.
"Separately!"
"This is y'all," says Beth, the motel-owner, swinging the door to their room open.
The pretty and petite blonde in her late 30s had fawned over the writer during check-in and it had been a strain not to roll her eyes. Was there a woman in the South who wasn't a Richard Castle fan?
He had to sever their hand-hold to sign Beth's book, but he banded a possessive arm around her waist when he was done, as if he could sense her discomfort. She knows she doesn't have anything to worry about, that he's committed to her and she'll have to come to terms with doting fans if they're going to be together, but she just wants to keep him all to herself for a little bit first.
Though she didn't mean like this…
"You don't have anything with doubles?" she asks, staring at the single queen-sized bed in the center of the room. It has a wooden headboard stamped with a star in a circle and a pair of cattle horns mounted above. The nightstands are oak barrels and each of the bedside lamps have a ceramic cowboy boot as the stand and a cowhide rug adorns the hardwood floor. It's a little over-the-top, but it has a whimsical charm. However, there's nothing whimsical about there only being one bed and suddenly, she's wide awake.
"Fraid not. With the festival in town, everythin' and everywhere's booked up. But Bea didn't think it'd be an issue."
"Course she didn't," Kate mutters under her breath. If it weren't for their damn vow of chastity, she'd be glad for an excuse to share a bed with the writer and appreciate Bea's well-intentioned meddling, but how the fuck is she supposed to control herself with him so close? After knowing what his mouth can do? How his touch feels? What he tastes like?
"It's no big deal, I can just sleep on the floor," Castle puts forth.
"You are not sleeping on the floor," she contends fiercely.
He's given her so much, and she's not about to make him suffer like that. Especially after he spent half of last night on the bathroom floor with her and the other half on the couch.
"This sofa has a pullout," Beth says, removing cushions from a faded and plaid-patterned loveseat and jerking out a twin-sized mattress with noticeable lumps. "Not the best, but she gets the job done."
Kate imagines the floor would actually be more preferable.
"Dibs," the writer says, dropping his duffel onto the pullout, which creaks ominously under the weight of his bag.
"Castle."
"It's just one night."
She opens her mouth to protest when her stomach interrupts with a loud growl.
"Did you not eat?" he asks with a hitched eyebrow.
"I had some salad," she says, bristling. "You?"
"Uh, a slice of pie with ice cream."
"Castle!"
Beth steps between them.
"You know, our restaurant's open 'til midnight."
It's a little after 10 p.m. when they stroll into the banquet hall of Big Texan Steak Ranch, the motel's adjoining restaurant, a large space with high ceilings and a wide open floor. It looks like a Disney-fied version of an old saloon with damask wallpaper overwhelming the paneling, more than one vintage chandelier hanging above, and taxidermied deer heads with antlers festooned every few feet on the railing of the second floor gangway.
The long family-style tables in the middle have cow-patterned tablecloths and wooden spindle chairs to sit in. They thankfully get seated in one of the more private booths along the edge, upholstered in brown leather.
"And I said if he wanted to get Bea's attention, he needed to make a grand gesture. You know, the all-or-nothing kind. That's when he mentioned he'd buried his grandmother's ring in the fireplace (which was in the process of being newly put in at the time) the night before he left for Princeton because it was meant for Bea and Bea only. She was the fire in his heart. His home and hearth."
She butters a dinner roll from their complimentary bread basket.
"I can't believe he told you all that. You were alone for all of five minutes."
"What can I say, I have a kind face. People like to tell me things."
She scoffs in disbelief. More like pester them with five thousand questions until they give in.
"And well, I kind of offered to buy the bar," he confesses.
"You what?"
"My financial advisor says I need to diversify my portfolio."
"So you actually bought it?"
He shrugs.
"My way of giving back."
"Yeah. To your ego," she jokes, full of mirth. "You gonna have them rename it The Castle and add a drawbridge?"
"No, but that's a fantastic idea." He retrieves his red Moleskine from the pocket of his jean jacket and scribbles it down. "And Homer got me thinking, maybe they should make it similar to Medieval Times. You know, bring in an entertainment element. Serve dinner and cater to families by staging duels and telling old stories. Maybe more tourists would be inclined to stop by and it would boost business all around."
He's so fired up, it's adorable. A warm smile springs to her lips. He has such a big heart, and his genuine desire to help others makes her fall for him even more.
"I think it's a great plan."
"Yeah?"
She bites into her roll and nods sincerely as she chews.
He grins and continues writing, his pen flying across the page. She peruses the menu in the meanwhile, giving him time to jot down whatever else is on his mind since he hasn't had a real chance all day.
The menu is the kind that's full of fun fonts and bold colors and has the history of the restaurant printed on the back. She reads about the founder R.J. "Bob" Lee, who sought to create the ultimate Texas experience for travelers along Route 66. In 1960, he famously established a steak-eating contest after witnessing a cowboy who worked in a nearby stockyard eat 72 ounces of steak, a shrimp cocktail, a baked potato, a dinner roll, and a salad in one hour's time. He then declared, Whoever eats that much again in my restaurant in an hour, gets it for free.
"Hold on, you didn't tell me what you wrote to Bea on that napkin," Castle says, tearing her attention away.
Right.
She sets her menu down, takes a sip from her ice water, and clears her throat.
"Do you know the film, The Blue Butterfly?"
His eyes light up. "That's where your hair pin is from! I thought I recognized it. My mother would put it on all the time. How does the last line of it go again? It's so great. Oh, I know!" He snaps his fingers. "You got it ass backwards, dollface, uh…"
"The treasure ain't no damn blue butterfly, it's—"
"You," he finishes and she gets the feeling he's not just quoting anymore. Her heart flutters and her face burns, while her fingers self-consciously touch the jewelry piece holding back her curls. Bea and Forrest had gifted them their wedding outfits and let them hold onto their cowhide boots, a proper Texan keepsake. She's still in her dress, but she'd thrown her leather jacket on for dinner.
"Well, um, Bea's grandmother was part of the production crew. Props department. And she nicked this…"
She goes on to explain the passing down of the costume piece from mother to daughter, the El Rancho Curse, how Bea felt cursed, and how the best way to break a curse is…
"A kiss," she says, purposefully leaving out the true love part since she isn't ready to broach the word love around him, let alone true love. "So in my note, I reminded her of that."
"I knew you had an ooey gooey center," he says with that huge crooked smile of his, eyes sparkling bluer than usual.
"Shut up."
She rips a section off her dinner roll and pelts it at him. He dodges it with a laugh.
"So we're cursed, huh? We really are in a fairytale. Or a fractured one, anyway."
"A fractured fairytale?"
He returns his Moleskine to his jacket.
"It's a take on the classic form, but there are added twists or changes in traditional characters to make it more modern."
"Ah, so that explains why I'm always saving your ass. You're the Damsel in Distress," she quips.
He chuckles lightly. "I think I also qualify for Prince Charming—rich, handsome, and beloved by all in the land."
Her teeth tug at her bottom lip.
"Don't gloat, okay? 'Cause it's really unattractive."
He picks up his menu, scanning through it.
"Okay, but if I'm the Damsel, then I get the bed."
"What?"
"Since we're flipping the script, you have to do the chivalrous thing and take the pullout," he proclaims.
"Oh, yeah? That mean I have to kiss you awake, too?"
"Literary law demands it."
A laugh ripples from her throat.
"You keep talking about literary law like it's a real thing. What's the punishment if I don't follow the rules? Five to ten in mythology jail?"
"Actually, not following the established rules of writing is just as important as following them. Guess you could say it's a lot like the Wild West. You make up your own rules on your own terms."
A soft snort escapes from her.
"You know, you want the bed that bad, it's yours."
"Really?"
"Haven't you heard? Chivalry isn't dead."
His lips stretch into a wide smile as he turns his menu over to the back. He gasps after a moment.
Oh, no.
"You wanna do the steak challenge, don't you?"
He looks at her, impish.
"Care to make things more interesting?"
"How so?"
"If I'm able to do this, we share the bed. No funny business, of course." He holds out a hand. "Deal?"
She hesitates.
"Worried you can't control yourself when we're alone?" he teases.
"It's not me that I'm worried about," she huffs.
"I can assure you, my intentions are pure. I have a vow of chastity to honor, after all."
She could keep her hands to herself. Right?
"Fine. Deal."
They shake on it as their waitress approaches and then, she's scooting out of her booth seat.
"Where you going?" he asks in confusion.
"Order a chicken quesadilla for me? I'm gonna grab my camera."
"Your camera?"
"You and 72 ounces of steak? That needs to be documented. Photography law demands it."
He forgot to factor in the ice cream and pie from earlier.
He makes it about half-way through the monstrous meal before his stomach starts to turn on him and everything decides to come back up on its own volition.
He reaches for the designated chuck bucket just in time.
And hears the whir and snap of Kate's camera.
Oh, yeah.
Definitely cursed.
"Do you have any Tums or Pepto Bismol?" Kate asks Beth at the front desk.
Beth sets her copy of The Shining by Stephen King down. "Steak challenge?"
Castle groans, hands on his belly. "Please don't say steak."
"I'm afraid we're all out, and the only store open this late with more is downtown. But I can take ya. 'S only ten minutes away."
"You sure? I can ride my bike."
"Better to get him something as soon as possible. And he's in no condition to be on the back of a bike."
She places a sign on the counter that reads Back in two shakes of a cow's tail and ushers them outside.
In the back of Beth's pick-up, Kate allows him to lie his head in her lap and runs her fingers through his hair in an effort to soothe his nausea. She hates that he's in so much pain. Was this how he felt last night, with her? The circumstances aren't quite the same, but it strikes her—the role reversal. She, the caretaker for once. Hopefully, she can be enough for him. Be enough to help him heal.
Beth makes the trip in a record seven minutes and jumps out to grab the antacid medication from the CVS pharmacy.
"How you holding up?" she asks the writer.
"You know, I was jealous of the dog earlier. But not so much, anymore. The petting feels nice."
She huffs out a chuckle. "You better not be faking this."
"You think I'd willingly act like a wimp in front of my girlfriend?"
She freezes her petting and her muscles tense. It shouldn't surprise her. They were practically a couple already. Promised to each other. But they hadn't exactly discussed labels. And she's still not a free woman.
"Or since we're not quite official, I was thinking, my Girl Friday. Because it sounds close enough and thematically, it fits."
It used to unsettle her how easily he could tell what's on her mind, but she's grateful for it now. She relaxes and resumes the stroke of her fingers, her thumb brushing over the hickey on his neck.
"Well, if it fits thematically, who am I to argue?"
She senses the responding grin on his face as she spies Beth coming out of the store with a pink bottle in her hand. She taps the writer on his shoulder.
"Think you can sit up, my Boy Friday? Your medicine is here."
He rises with a moan, but he does it too fast and has to scramble for the door; poke his head out as a fresh batch of bile pours from him and hits the pavement in a splatter.
Beth stops short just outside the pool of puke, eyes wide.
"See?" He smiles weakly. "Not faking."
They sit next to each other on the curb outside the pharmacy, under the soft glow of a streetlamp. He knocks back a dose of Pepto Bismol while she drinks from her newly-purchased Sprite.
"Looks like the festival is still going," she observes, nodding toward the end of the main street, where a Route 66 banner marks the entrance of the festival grounds.
"Must be open 'til midnight like everything else."
She reaches for his left wrist and raises it up to read his watch. A couple minutes past 11 p.m.
"Feel like checking it out? Might be good for you to walk around a little. Get some fresh air."
"You're not tired?"
"I'd rather we settle your stomach first. And we're not gonna have a chance in the morning if we're planning on sticking to our schedule."
"Is this your way of asking me on a date?"
She rolls her eyes.
"If I were asking you on a date, you'd know it, Vomit Breath."
Beth says she'll meet them back in an hour.
Most of the festival activities are closed for the day (bull riding, stage performances, etc), but there's a row of classic cars for viewing and a corner of carnival game booths and food tents still open for business on the huge dirt lot.
They find someone to snap a few photos of them together by the cars.
"No bunny ears," she orders through her teeth as she smiles for the camera.
"Oh, c'mon. Just one."
She sighs in defeat.
"It better only be one. Or you're dead meat."
"I really can't win today," Castle bemoans, missing yet another peg at the ring toss.
She wants to ease his feelings of inadequacy, let him know he's more than enough. She almost blurts out something idiotic like she doesn't care if he wins duels or eating challenges or carnival games because he's already won her heart.
"Why don't you let me try?" she says instead.
He passes her his last ring and with a practiced flick of her wrist, she successfully sinks the metal circle over a center peg.
"Which prize do you want?" she asks.
"You pick," he says glumly.
"Can I get the lion, please?"
The game attendant hands her the small stuffed animal and she proudly presents it to the writer.
"For you, Mr. Lionheart."
Surprise replaces his downcast expression.
"Like Richard the Lionheart?"
She shrugs, playful.
"I thought it fit thematically."
He ignites with delight as he takes the lion and cradles it protectively in the curve of his elbow (she's thrilled to see him so happy).
"He shall henceforth be known as...Linus."
He hikes up his BB gun and haphazardly aims it at the standing ten-ring target in the shooting gallery.
"Am I doing this right?"
She gets behind him and resets his shoulders. "Square off to target." Positions his hips. "Feet shoulder-distance apart." Guides his arms with hers. "And gauntlet your right fist in your left palm like—"
The trigger goes off, sending a pellet into the edge of a neighboring target.
"Whoa! Shot too soon."
She uncurls from him, smirking.
"Yeah, well. We could always just cuddle, Castle."
He squeezes one eye shut and shoots another pellet. It hits the ground under the target, kicking up some dust.
"Is that a promise?"
She watches him miss again, the next pellet pinging off the metal stand of the target.
"Tell you what. You put any of the next three in the ten-ring, and we can share the bed. No funny business, of course."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He immediately pivots into a professional Weaver stance and pulls the trigger in a rapid fire sequence, each of the three rounds slamming dead center.
What the—?
Her jaw drops and she stares at him in shock.
"You're a very good teacher."
"How—"
He returns the BB gun to its plastic holster.
"You didn't think I was gonna call a book In a Hail of Bullets without doing some research first, did you? I'm qualified for a permit, but I just haven't gotten around to taking the written test."
"You—you hustled me!"
He grins, infuriatingly smug and victorious.
"So which side of the bed do you prefer?"