He has no idea what he's doing here again as the waiter guides him to the same table he was sitting at only three days ago. He almost finished a whole novel in three days. He shouldn't be here, he shouldn't push his luck like that, to be in danger of destroying the illusion, the image his alcohol and longing-induced mind created.
What will happen if he bursts his bubble today? What if today, instead of seeing all the similarities between this woman and his muse, he sees all that distinguishes them from each other.
He's certain that his sudden burst of creativity will crumble. The power of his imagination lets him morph his Beckett with this mysterious woman with the amazing, painfilled voice, telling a story that's not hers about her own heartbreak when she had to see him walk away with Gina and never come back, and with his fantasy Nikki once again.
It's embarrassing him, but he googled. There was no murder connected to this club or even this scene. He really is pathetic. His bubble is going to burst today and maybe take his whole life with it. But at least it'll die with her voice in its ears.
Oh, god, he's being as dramatic as his mother. He shakes his head over himself, a small smile dancing on his lips, and pulls out his laptop. He's going to use everything that's given him today. Every Beckett flash he can get. If he goes down, he will go down with a bang.
The waiter comes to take his order.
"When I was here a few days ago, a woman was singing an Etta James' song. Is she going to be here today, too?" The waiter frowns showing him that they don't like their guests to interact with their artists unless it comes from them, but he stays polite.
"As far as I know, Kitten just arrived and is getting ready, Sir."
"Kitten? Her name is Kitten?" Images of Beckett teasing him with Meredith's pet name for him, flood his overimaginative mind, fantasy mingling with reality. Her smell when he leaned in closer to tell her to never call him Kitten again. His imagination running away with him again. Bubble not yet burst, check. He's going to light his keys on fire. The waiter is looking at him with a raised eyebrow as if he wants to say "Of course not, duh". Yeah, of course not, duh.
"Do you want me to give her a message, sir?"
"A message? I– Uh, I could do that? I … uh." He could send her a message? He's thinking about it for a moment like he was fantasizing about using all connections and favors he has to shadow her, just to be near her, just to get as many Beckett-like vibes from her as possible. But it would only make him more miserable, seeing how much she's not her. And he'd reach a new low point in his life. But a message? No. No, what would be the point? "No, thank you. I just really liked her performance and was looking forward to hearing her sing today again."
The waiter nods and retreats, leaving Rick alone with his thoughts, his imagination running away with him and typing furiously until his fingers might start bleeding. A woman who reminds him so much of his muse is singing a song that could've been written for them and her stage name is Kitten. Oh, yes, his fantasy is going to kill him tonight. Already only half present as he delves deeper and deeper into the conspiracy that Nikki in her flimsy outfit and Jameson are going to unveil.
He freezes when the opening number starts, his fingers hovering over the keyboard, his eyes already roaming the girls to find her. He doesn't need to search for long, his gaze almost magically drawn to her, looking even more magnificently than a few days before. His breath catches in his throat, his heart stumbling through the sudden sensation of their eyes meeting. A jolt of electricity runs through his body, piercing everything inside, making him long for her – or her imagined self – so badly. He. Is. So. Damn. Pathetic.
He wishes he could see the color of her eyes from here, wishes he could see if they are similar to Kate's, but her mask is casting shadows over her eyes, and the light setting unfortunately not helping him. But he cannot shake the feeling that she keeps her eyes fixed on him during the opening number, making him dizzy from the air his lungs are craving. It's probably impossible that she can see him, the lights on the stage too bright, and too dimmed in the audience for anyone to see it. He's heard it often enough from his mother, experienced it himself at big events where he was asked to speak. But still, he likes the idea of her looking right at him, that she's as fascinated by him as he is by her. Or her resemblance with someone he's almost morbidly fascinated with.
If he wouldn't be such a coward, he would've called. He thought about it several times, hovered over her contact sheet way too often. But then he read the tiny column, not more than a paragraph that Nikki Heat got engaged to a doctor without borders, and he buried the idea deep down. Whatever might've been between them, it's long gone and she's moving forward. He finally needs to find a way to do it, too. If he just knew how …
The opening number is finished, the girls leave the stage, but he can't look anymore. He can't see her leave. Kitten. It's so pathetic of him. Why is he torturing himself so much? He needs to finish the book, use every ounce of creativity she sparks with him and then he needs to burst the bubble to be able to move forward.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, takes several deep breaths, to be able to focus again on the story, re-reads the last two paragraphs he's written before the opening number, and, thank god, is being pulled under immediately, so deep he almost misses the first beats of her song over an hour later.
She's looking directly at him again, piercing his soul with her dark, hooded eyes, her words seemingly directed at him, thrown in his direction with so much hurt and devastation in her voice again. It hits him even harder this time, now that he's sober. Every little note a dagger in his heart, his mind overactive again, overlaying this beautiful Beckett rendition with images of his Beckett and Demming.
He can't handle the pain today, regrets that he came here to experience her voice completely sober. Before he realizes what he's doing, he's storming out of the room.
Her words haunt him, sounding like a threat, a warning, to not dare to walk away from her again. He can't handle it. He can't. He just can't. That's why he never contacted her. He can't see her walk away from him again.
He has no idea where his feet are carrying him, looking for a place where he can free his emotions before they strangle him. Only for a second, a short moment, that's all he needs to compose himself, all he needs.
He huffs to himself. He feared that she'd burst his bubble, that reality would catch up with him, but instead, he was faced with his demons tonight. Great. Just great.
Hushed voices reach his ears, spark his morbid curiosity, and make him follow them to a small hallway cramped with boxes floor-to-ceiling. He hides behind a shelf full of supplies for the bar as it seems like, peeping through the holes until he can make out two figures, male, caucasian, one in his twenties, the other one older, probably in his forties. Ugh, like him. His mind is cataloging all the details, trained to do it even before he worked with Beckett. Something's not right here, he can sense it. That's not a meeting between two colleagues on a break.
"Did you do what I told you?", the elder man says, crowding the younger one, his voice rough, unforgiving. So, he's the one in charge, and something happened that makes him still angry, interesting.
"Yeah, they have no clue, stumbling in the dark. It's probably going to be closed soon." Huh. What are they talking about?
"Perfect. The next shipment will come tomorrow, 11 pm, but we need to be careful. I have a feeling that they are onto us. There's a new girl and I don't like the way she looks around." Shipment? New girl? Oh, he's definitely going to use this for his novel, this is ah-mazing! He has to hold back rubbing his hands in excitement.
"What girl? The blonde?" Every hair on his body stands up. They are not talking about Kitten, are they? She's not the only blonde in the group, maybe they aren't even talking about the artists. But she's of course the first he thinks of. Maybe he should warn her. And tell her what, Castle? How do you even want to get to her? A voice, way too similar to Beckett's, chides him in his head.
"Yeah, our kitty cat. She's a bit too curious, too eager for my liking. And after what happened … We need to be careful." Castle's heart stops for a beat before it tries to run away from what he just heard. They are indeed talking about Kitten.
"Do you want me to take care of her?"
"Shht!", the older growls, hits the younger in the chest, hard, judging from his groan. "Nobody can know about this. You already screwed up with the other body, forgetting his stupid phone in his pockets. That's how they got onto us in the first place. We cannot risk another one yet. We'll just observe, maybe scare her a little, maybe she'll have an accident." Wait? A body? But he didn't find anything about that. Did they kill somebody? Are they planning on killing Kitten, too? He doesn't like the way this maniac jumps from 'observing' and laying low to 'having an accident'. What type of accident? To scare her? To kill her?
"Oh, I can do that, dad." Wait, dad? This is his son? Castle almost screams it out loud, quickly presses his hand over his mouth, to keep him from doing something stupid. It's time for him to leave. He definitely needs to warn Kitten. Send her a message or something. But what if the waiter is involved, too? Oh, that would be such a gripping plot. He definitely needs to work this into his story.
He's too excited to notice that he is walking backward into the next shelf. Cans of cocktail fruit fall to the floor with a loud clatter, attracting the attention of the two men. Oh, holy crap. This is not going to end well.
Just then, he feels slender fingers wrap around his biceps and a warm body press against him. Oh, he really is doomed.