Papa Jack Chapter 54

"Beckett," Richard says as she drives their rental car back toward their hotel in Caracas, "you said we'd talk after you'd seen Bracken. You've seen Bracken. So what's our next step forward?"

"What do you mean next step, Castle? When we get back to New York, you'll continue shadowing me on my investigations, won't you?"

"That's what I signed on to do, but it's not what I'm talking about. I don't believe it's what you're talking about, either. There's this, um, thing that's been building between us, Beckett. Before the brass band almost blew out our eardrums, you were starting to say something. What were you going to say?"

Kate's knuckles whiten as she grasps the steering wheel. "I'm not sure, Castle. I was, uh, in the moment."

"Would you do better with multiple choice?" Richard queries, frustration roughening his tone. OK, 'A,' questions about our trip to Vista Hermosa, which would now be moot. 'B,' wondering who would get the last cookie, now also moot. 'C,' questions about the whatever it is that's been building between us ever since Madison Square Garden."

Kate stares silently ahead.

"Beckett, look," Richard continues, "despite the preponderance of female readers at my book signings, I don't have that much experience with women. When I was growing up, it was just my dad and me. And like you, as a teenager, I didn't spend my time making out in the backseat of someone's car. I'm a writer because I write. That's how I've spent my spare and not-so-spare time ever since I could hold a pencil – maybe even a crayon. I don't remember, but according to my father, I used one to write my first story when I was four. Even if that's merely parental puffery, I've spent most of my life putting words on the page – or the computer screen. In case you haven't noticed, relations with the feminine persuasion don't work out as well as they might for my heroes. I don't know how to write them any other way. So give me a break here, OK? Just tell me what was on your mind."

Kate spots a turn-off ahead, takes it, and pulls into the parking lot of what looks like the Venezuelan version of a roadhouse. After shutting off the ignition, she swivels in her seat, reaching across the front console to touch Richard's hand. "Yeah, it was 'C.' But I don't understand what's happening between us any more than you do. I got my first job at fifteen so I could pay for my Harley. Between that and the heavy curriculum at Stuyvesant, I didn't have a lot of time for boys – unless they were helping me work on my cycle. The year I spent at Stanford, I went a little crazy and got involved with this guy who… let's just say the relationship wasn't the healthiest thing for me."

"What? Beckett, did he abuse you?"

Kate vigorously shakes her head. "No, nothing like that. But he was very into cheap wine – way too into it. And he convinced me that I liked getting buzzed, too. We did some pretty irresponsible stuff together. But that all ended with my mother's murder. I did my best to take care of my father while getting the criminal justice education I would need to nail my mother's killer. That didn't leave a whole lot of time for exploring romantic relationships. That's probably why I want to take charge of everything. I haven't been able to depend much on anyone else."

Richard squeezes Kate's hand. "Well, you can now. But it sounds like we're in pretty much the same romantic relationship boat: 'The Clueless.'"

"Yeah," Kate agrees. "So, if you were writing our story, where would we go from here?"

"If I were writing it, I'd probably do a North by Northwest and have a plane fly over trying to kill us. We'd be too busy running for our lives to puzzle about how to hook up. But since I don't hear an airplane engine, I guess we go back to our hotel in Caracas and grab a few hours of sleep before we catch our flight to Miami tomorrow morning. After we clear customs, we'll still be stuck in the airport for a few hours before our flight to New York. We could try to find a quiet corner to figure things out. If I recall, there is a restaurant by the South Terminal where, if your order is big and expensive enough, you can just kick back for a while with no one bothering you. How do you feel about Cuban food?"

"I haven't eaten that much of it," Kate confides, "but what I've had, I liked."

"Perfect! Then, it would appear that we have a plan."

"I guess this will be the best we can do," Richard says, carrying a tray with his and Kate's orders to the most isolated corner at La Pausa. "At least it smells good in here."

Kate giggles. "Which is more than I can say for the bullpen. Esposito should never have started Ryan on those bean burritos."

"Who would have thought they'd become an Irish cop's favorite lunch? That's New York for you," Richard muses. "According to my father, there are over 800 languages spoken in our old hometown. It's the most linguistically diverse city in the world. The wide assortment of cuisines would naturally follow." Richard transfers the contents of his tray to the small table. His and Kate's knees almost touch as they take seats across from each other. "But we didn't come here to talk about New York eateries. So, when we get back to home base, what then?"

"If we want to keep working with each other at the precinct, we'll have to keep whatever we do there professional. The NYPD has regulations about cops who work together having romantic relationships."

Richard snaps his fingers. "Darn! And Ryan and Esposito were getting on so well. But they're both cops. As you and other denizens of the bullpen have pointed out, I'm not. I'm not even on the payroll as a civilian. So, I don't see how those rules could apply to us."

"Maybe, technically, they don't," Kate concedes, "but detectives are naturally nosy."

"Which is why they're detectives," Richard asserts.

"Yeah, maybe, but I don't want everyone in the bullpen knowing my business – our business."

Richard slowly nods. "O-K. I can deal with that. But we still haven't decided what our business is. Beckett, Kate, with all the time we've spent together, we've never even had a real date, let alone messing around in a back seat or anywhere else. So, maybe that's where we should start."

Kate's eyelashes flutter. "In a back seat, Castle?"

"At least we wouldn't have to worry about the gear shift. But no, with an actual date. You know, dinner, a movie or a play, and then – we'd see what develops."

"When we get back, I'll still have one day left of the leave I got for our trip," Kate muses.

"Outstanding! Then, Detective Beckett, would you do me the honor of accompanying me to dinner and a performance of Spamalot? That is if you like Monty Python. I have connections. I can get us in."

"Castle, I love Monty Python, and I would be happy to accept your invitation."

"Great! Then it's a date!"