Valor on the Move
An Original Publication From Keira Andrews
Valor on the Move
Written and published by Keira Andrews
Cover by
Dar Albert
Formatted by
Frostbite Publishing
Copyright © 2015 by Keira Andrews
All rights reserved.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and locations are either a product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious setting. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or people, living or dead, is strictly coincidental. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without written consent from the author. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
First Digital Edition, 2015
ISBN: 978-0-9940924-4-1
Valor on the Move
He’d give his life to protect the president’s son. But he never expected to risk his heart.
Growing up gay in the White House hasn’t been easy for Rafael Castillo. Codenamed “Valor” by the Secret Service, Rafa feels anything but brave as he hides in the closet and tries to stay below the radar in his last year of college. His father’s presidency is almost over, and he just needs to stick to his carefully crafted plan. Once his family’s out of the spotlight, he can be honest with his conservative parents about his sexuality and his dream of being a chef. It's definitely not part of Rafa’s plan to get a new Secret Service agent who’s a walking wet dream, but he’s made it this long keeping his desires to himself. Besides, it’s not like Shane Kendrick would even look at him twice if it wasn’t his job.
Shane’s worked his way up through the Secret Service ranks, and while protecting the president’s shy, boring son isn’t his dream White House assignment, it’s an easy enough task since no one pays Rafa much attention. He discovers there’s a vibrant young man beneath the timid public shell, and while he knows Rafa has a crush on him, he assures himself it’s harmless. Shane’s never had room for romance in his life, and he’d certainly never cross that line with a protectee.
Keeping Rafa safe at any cost is Shane’s mission. But as Rafa gets under his skin, will they both put their hearts on the line?
Many, many thanks to Anne-Marie, Becky, Jules, Mary, and Rachel for their fantastic beta reading and friendship. And a big thank you to Annabeth Albert, who inspired me to dust off this story idea and bring it to life.
Someday when people ask what it was like growing up gay in the White House, Rafael Castillo will tell them it sucked donkey balls.
And not in a good way, for the record. (Not that Rafa had any desire to fellate a donkey, but he was keenly interested in going down on a guy before his own balls went so blue they shriveled up and fell off.)
“Babe, I’d better get to sleep. It’s, like, ass-o-clock in the morning over here.” Ashleigh yawned loudly. “Glad you made it home from the bullshit seminar okay.”
Home
. Even after seven years, it was still weird to think of the White House that way. “Thanks. Have fun eating croissants and reading existential poetry by the Seine. Or whatever people do in Paris on their days off.” Rafa twisted his foot in his sheet idly, staring at the old Kelly Slater surfing poster he’d had up since they moved in. His mother had forbade thumbtacks and insisted on framing it in tasteful red wood on the pale cream wall.
Ashleigh laughed. “I’ve been telling you what people do in Paris for two hours, and I did not once mention pastry or angsty poetry. But it is all rather glamorous, I admit. Even as a lowly intern, it’s still
Vogue
. I got to take home a negligee from the closet. That is the legendary
Vogue
closet, by the way.”
“Oh la la.” He pitched his voice low. “Are you wearing it now?”
Her voice went husky. “Sure am. It’s lacy and black and almost completely see through.” She paused. “What are you wearing, lover?”
He laughed. “The usual.” With Ash, he could talk and have fun and not have to think about every word. He wished it were so easy with the rest of the world, but Ashleigh was really the only person who knew him. The
real
him.
“Hmm. Since you’re in your room where no one can see you, I’m guessing you’ve traded your usual slacks and button-down for boxers and a Yankees T-shirt with some variety of food stain on it.”
“Close. It’s an old UVA tee from freshman orientation. Stain is of the pizza variety.”
“
Hot
. And hey, tell your dad thanks again for pulling those strings, okay?”
“I will when he gets back from wherever.” Rafa glanced at the digital clock on his bedside table. Just past eleven, so perfect timing. Downstairs should be nice and quiet.
“When was the last time you talked to him?”
“I thought you wanted to go to sleep?”
Ashleigh huffed, and he could imagine the roll of her eyes. “Answer the question.”
“I dunno. A few weeks ago. He’s been busy. You know—the G7, the Chechnyan peace talks, backslapping with the NRA. Anyway, get to sleep. Glad you met a friend who loves Renaissance art as much as you do.”
“Yeah, me too. I think it’s going to be a fun summer. Love you, babe.”
“Love you too, Ash.”
He tapped off the phone and tossed it on the bed beside him, chuckling to himself. While Ashleigh appreciated Michelangelo as much as the next person, the staff who monitored his calls must have marveled over her passion for it. While he knew the Secret Service and White House staffers didn’t care about his personal life and were only interested in protecting the president and his family, Rafa still maintained the charade at all times. He and Ash had come up with the code not long after they’d started dating—or should he say “dating.” In their secret language, motorcycles filled in for hot guys. For example, if Rafa said, “I saw a gorgeous ride today—a Ducati with red trim,” that meant he’d spotted a sexy redhead he wanted to bang. Anyone who shared Ash’s interest in Renaissance art was a lesbian she wanted to hook up with.
At first it had been a fun game to talk in code, but now it was just normal. Most importantly, it was effective, since it had been three years and they hadn’t been outed. They’d played their roles as young lovers perfectly, and it had served them both well. Ashleigh hadn’t been ready to come out to her incredibly conservative parents, and Rafa couldn’t either. Not yet, anyway. Most of the world might have come a long way on the subject of gay rights, but the neoconservatives in the States had pushed back hard. A Republican president with a gay son living in the White House? It would have been a nightmare for his father, let alone for him. Rafa had about seven months to go in DC until the new president’s inauguration in January, and then he was free.
He wished Ash had been at the young leaders’ summer seminar his mother had forced him to suffer through after his exams. Sitting in lectures just wasn’t the same without his best friend. While the rest of the class in Intro to American Studies at UVA in freshman year had stared and whispered furtively, splitting their attention between Rafa and the Secret Service agents in khakis and polos at the back of the lecture hall (who were
not
blending in even a little), Ashleigh had plopped next to him and started complaining about the water pressure in her dorm. She’d also inquired as to whether his “goons” could kill her snoring roommate and make it look like an accident.
Yawning, Rafa stretched out on the mattress. Before he’d moved in at fourteen, there’d been a four-poster bed in his room, complete with canopy. Fortunately they’d redecorated in tasteful earth tones of rich, reddish brown and green, and his bed was canopy-free. They’d even redone the ensuite bathroom for him in gleaming white and silver. Aside from the surfing poster, it might have been a hotel room. He’d already unpacked, and everything was neatly tucked away in his closet and shiny mahogany dresser. His sister Adriana’s room had typically looked akin to a hurricane disaster zone, but Rafa always kept his neat and tidy. Their parents had insisted they be responsible for keeping their own rooms and bathrooms clean, and the fewer things he gave them to criticize, the better.
After getting up and yanking on his jeans and sneakers, Rafa took a quick glance in the mirror, frowning at his stupid freckles, already more prominent even though summer had just begun. His thick, dark brown hair tended to curl, and after his evening shower he hadn’t parted it and slicked it back with his usual extra-strength pomade. He brushed the gentle curls off his forehead, making a mental note to ask Henry, the chief usher, to get the barber in since there were waves forming just above his ears. And the last thing Rafa needed was to be called a Chia Pet again.
His cheeks still got hot when he thought about the internet meme with his face Photoshopped on a fuzzy ceramic animal with bushy chia growing from it. He’d just started his new high school in Washington mid-year after his father’s inauguration, and at fourteen he’d been gangly and pimply with a mouth full of metal. Suddenly his new classmates would say “Ch-ch-ch-Chia!” when he came into a room, and he hadn’t even gotten the joke until he’d Googled it. The kids at school had usually been nice to him, but they’d gotten a kick out of the meme. Even though Rafa had cut his hair an inch from his scalp the next day, the nickname had stuck.
He edged open the door and peeked out of his room—officially known as Bedroom 303. There was really no need for stealth since the second and third floors of the residence in the White House were the only place in the world he had freedom from his Secret Service detail, but it was a habit. His eldest brother Christian’s room was across the center hall, but Chris was twenty-seven and hadn’t ever really lived at the White House full time. Now he was in New York, and Rafa was alone up on the third floor as usual. To his left were the Music Room and Workout Room. As he headed to the stairs he passed the Cedar Room, a little space paneled entirely of cedar that had been used for winter storage back in the day, and the Linen Room, which was exactly what it sounded like. The Game Room sat on the other side of the hall, and a few bedrooms dotted the rest of the level.
Behind the Linen Room was his favorite place in the whole world—the Diet Kitchen. The dictionary said a diet kitchen was used to prepare special meals for invalids in a hospital. FDR had the Diet Kitchen built because he’d hated the housekeeper’s food and wanted his own meals made there.
Rafa went down the little passageway. The small rectangular kitchen was right over the north portico, and the moon shone through the skylights in the sloped roof. Along with a stove, fridge, and sink, a counter and cupboards wrapped around the space. Rafa didn’t need to turn on the light to navigate it, and he ran his hand over the smooth counters. It was a basic kitchen, and he had no special or fancy equipment. But it was
his.
At least for the time being. Most of the year he was stuck in his dorm, and he itched for the sizzle of butter in the pan and freshly ground spices in the air. He’d make the pasta tomorrow and roll it out in sheets to create ravioli, but he could start on the filling tonight.
Rafa went back to the center hall and tiptoed down to the ground floor, using the back stairs next to the family elevator. These stairs went almost right to the kitchen, but one of his agents still appeared, straightening his suit jacket.