Valor on the Move (27 page)

Standing inside the rest stop again, this time with a group of investigators in tow, Shane recited the litany of events—of course leaving out the masturbation and his own unprofessional reaction to it. His head pounded, and the dank concrete building felt claustrophobic.

“Valor was upset about an argument with his parents. We discussed it briefly. I convinced him to return to Castle. When we walked out the door, I was hit.” He indicated the side of his head. “I was briefly stunned by the shot. My vision and hearing were temporarily impaired. Valor was taken. I discovered our radios and phones were being jammed. Agent Pearce was seriously wounded.” He mentally shook free the memory of Alan’s pale, frightened face. “I immediately pursued Valor.”

An investigator frowned. “You didn’t hear the van approach?” he asked.

“No.”

“And Agent Pearce didn’t alert you to its presence?”

“The radios were jammed.”

The investigator glanced at the door. “It’s a matter of feet. Surely Agent Pearce could have shouted?”

“I…yes, he could have.”
Why didn’t Al shout?

“And you didn’t hear Agent Pearce get shot?”

“Not when I was inside the building,” Shane answered. “I assume it happened at the same time they shot me. There was a lot of noise. Or I suppose they had a silencer.”

Another man asked, “And you say it was Agent Pearce who was tasked with communicating this location to the detail leader?”

“Yes. He was calling Harris when I left the vehicle and entered the building.”

They scribbled some notes, then led him outside. As Shane took them through the next moments, his mind whirled.

Harris insisted he didn’t get the call.

Why didn’t Al shout?

Why didn’t I hear the van?

Why the hell didn’t Harris get that call?

Dread in the pit of Shane’s stomach unfurled, slithering through him.

If they were scrambling the signal when Shane went inside, Alan would have called out and alerted him. And the signal had definitely still been working, since Alan had checked in with him some minutes later—seven or so. Yes, the radio had definitely still worked.

At that point, he’d been talking to Rafa by the sinks. As occupied as he’d been, he would have heard an approaching engine. After the years on the job, it was second nature. He didn’t even have to think about noting potential trouble spots; potential danger. It was rote.

There had been no engine. The van had to have rolled in silently. It had been dark and rainy, but Alan would have seen it. Even without lights, he would have noticed the movement. He’d been out of the Suburban when they’d shot him. Some feet away from it. He should have honked or shouted when they’d approached.

Why didn’t he shout?

Shane finished talking and stood in the rest stop parking lot, which was cordoned off with yellow tape. The investigators made more notes as he waited. As he desperately tried to find answers to his questions that didn’t result in the same terrible conclusion.

“We’re moving on,” one of the investigators said. “Ready?”

Shane nodded, but his stomach roiled as the terrible pieces of the puzzle began to slide inexorably into place.

He wasn’t ready at all.

“Back in uniform, huh?”

As Rafa came out of his room, he blinked at Matthew in the hall before looking down at his slacks and button-down shirt. He ran a hand over his tamed hair. “I guess.”

“Sorry, that was a dick thing to say. There’s nothing wrong with how you look. How are you feeling?”

“Good,” Rafa lied. “A little banged up, I guess. But I’m fine.”
Except for the fact that I need to see Shane again like I need air.

Matthew’s cheeks puffed out as he exhaled and shuffled from one foot to the other, scuffing his sneakers on the carpet. “I’m heading to the airport. Have to get back to training. But I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I should have paid more attention. You know I couldn’t wait to get away when I went to college. And I was doing my thing out there, and you were doing your thing here, and I figured you were fine. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“It’s not your fault. I could have talked to you. It’s two ways. Communication, I mean. I made my choices.”

“I still feel like a bag of dicks. You’re my little brother.” Matthew swallowed thickly and tucked a lock of his shaggy hair behind his ear. “You know I love you and all that shit, right? That I don’t care about the gay thing? I think it’s great. So I just want to make sure you know.”

“I do, Matty.” Rafa blinked rapidly. “But thanks for saying it. I love you too. And all that shit.”

“Cool. I’d better go.” He closed the few feet between them and yanked Rafa into a hug. “Just be yourself, and everyone else can fuck off.” He slapped Rafa’s back.

When he was gone, Rafa wandered into the Solarium, waiting for his parents. They’d asked to speak with him, and even though he understood why they had to arrange a time and place, it always made their conversations feel so official and fraught with tension.

He thought about his father arranging a time to talk about Rafa’s mid-term grades not long after they’d moved into the White House. Rafa had worried about it for two days, sure that his mostly As weren’t good enough, and that he’d be punished for the two B-pluses on ninth grade math and science. But his dad had only congratulated him on his hard work and taken him down to the kitchen for surprise milkshakes.

As he paced by the curved wall of windows, Rafa stared out at the sunny day. The Washington Monument soared against a blue sky, and cars and people went about their business.

He wondered where Shane was. There were new agents on his detail, and he’d nodded politely to them when he’d gone down to the kitchen to ask Magda for some cilantro and avocado. He’d asked if Alan was okay and when Shane would be back, but they hadn’t had the answer to the latter. At least Alan was apparently recovering. That was something, at least.

His new phone buzzed in his pocket, and he grimaced at the text from Ashleigh.

They’re at work until tonight. Tell me it’s a bad idea to get drunk this afternoon before telling them.

He quickly tapped in:
It’s a bad idea. You sure you don’t want me to be there?

The three dots appeared, followed by her message.

I’m sure. You’ve got your own shit. I can do this. I’m not promising I won’t get drunk after. Have you talked to the media yet? They keep calling me. I’m going to have to change this number. People are gagging for an interview with you.

Ugh. He’d briefly looked at the news coverage on TV and online, but it was too surreal. All the years of flying under the radar, and suddenly he was the most famous first kid in decades. He tapped the keyboard.

The PR people are writing a statement for me. I’m hoping it’ll all blow over in a couple days and someone from a reality show does something dumb and/or offensive.

She replied:
We can live in hope. Later, babe.

Rafa pocketed his phone. He’d Googled Shane, and tried 411 and every way he could think of to find Shane’s phone number. No luck, and it wasn’t as though he could just go over to Shane’s house with his detail in tow. That was assuming he could even find out where Shane’s house was. Maybe it was an apartment, or a condo, or who the hell knew.

The reality that he might very well never see Shane again was a constant fear, jagged and sharp. He had to find a way. He just needed to talk to Shane and hear the rumble of his voice. Hell, he’d settle for a text, or a freaking Snapchat. But Shane was just…gone. And it wasn’t as if he could call Rafa either, or drop by to say hi.

But does he miss me the way I miss him? Does he want to see me again? Does he still care?

It had really felt like Shane cared. When Rafa closed his eyes, he could imagine he was back in the cave, his head on Shane’s thigh, and Shane’s fingers combing rhythmically through his hair. It had felt so good to just be together and talk—to actually be able to touch Shane and hold him. It had all been so…
intimate
. Now Rafa felt like he really knew what that word meant in reality and not just theory.

And having sex for the first time had been pretty spectacular. Even if they hadn’t gone all the way, he was pretty sure orgasms counted.

At one of the windows, he pressed his forehead against the glass. The need to be with Shane again was a hunger, and it was more than physical. So much more.

“Rafa?”

He jolted back from the window, whirling around to find his parents watching him with matching frowns.

“Are you all right? Did you have lunch?” Camila asked. “We can have something brought up.” She pivoted in her heels, her black skirt flowing around her knees.

“It’s okay, Mom, I ate. I’m fine, just a little spaced out, I guess.”

“Let’s sit.” His father motioned to the couch, taking off his suit jacket and carefully hanging it from a nearby wooden chair.

Rafa tried to relax on the couch, sitting between his parents. “So,” Rafa said.

“Well, we obviously have a lot to discuss.” Ramon templed his fingers. “First off, a therapist will be coming tomorrow to meet with you.”

“I’m fine. Really!” He looked between his parents. “I am.”

“Darling, you suffered a traumatic event,” Camila said. “It can’t hurt to discuss it with a professional. We’ll all be meeting with her separately. Not just you.”

“Oh. Okay, I guess.”

“Okay,” Ramon agreed. He hesitated. “Then there’s the matter of your sexuality.”

Rafa tensed. “I thought we already talked about that.”

“Yes, but we need to discuss your plans for going public.”

His heart dropping, Rafa picked at the jagged edge of a fingernail, his gaze zeroed in on it. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep it private until you’re out of the White House. That was always the plan. I don’t want to screw things up for you.”

“Rafa.” His father’s tone was stern. “Will you look at me, please?” When Rafa raised his head, Ramon went on. “I’m only worried about you. I have less than six months left in the White House, and I don’t want you living in secret a day longer if that’s not what
you
want. I don’t care what the party thinks. I’ve done their bidding long enough. We’ve been reading about this…” He waved his hand. “Coming out. The experts say it should always be on your terms.”

Rafa smiled tentatively. “Oh. You really wouldn’t mind if I told everyone I’m gay? I thought… I mean, you wanted me to stay in the closet. You assumed I would.”

Camila’s face pinched. “We did. And we realize now it was quite a mistake to make that assumption. To assume that because you hadn’t said otherwise, you were happy with the status quo. If you want to come out publicly, we’ll support you completely.”

As his father nodded, Rafa considered it. “Would you be saying this if I hadn’t been kidnapped?”

His parents shared a glance, and Ramon answered sadly. “I don’t know, Rafa. Maybe not. Maybe it would have taken more time to reach this point. I’d like to think we’d have arrived here either way. But to come so close to losing you…it puts life in perspective. That was the darkest night of our lives. It was like an eternity waiting to hear if our son was alive or dead. To know if we’d ever see you again.” He shuddered. “Perhaps one day you’ll have a child of your own, and you’ll be able to imagine this
terror.”

His mother said rigid beside Rafa. He reached for her hand. “Mom…”

Her smile was brittle as she squeezed his fingers. “I made a bargain with God. I swore that if you were returned to us whole, nothing else mattered. Not my ambitions for you, or my expectations, or wants. Only your happiness. And I always keep my promises, Rafa.”

“I know.” He kissed her cheek. “Thank you.”

“So, it’s up to you, Rafalito,” his father said. “We can arrange for an interview with one of the news programs, or a magazine. Or you can simply begin living openly and see other boys. The rumors will fly, and we can simply say yes, our son is gay. And that will be that. Or you can do nothing at all. The choice is yours.”

“I don’t really want to give an interview, but it would be nice not to pretend anymore. Can I think about it?”

“Of course,” Camila answered. “There’s no rush. We just wanted you to know you have our support.”

“That means more to me than I can say. Thank you.” Rafa swiped at his eyes. “Ugh. I think I’ve cried more in the past few days than I have in my entire life.”

Ramon laughed softly. “Yes. I think that’s true for all of us.”

“And if you guys are supporting my choices, you’re still on board for Australia and the Cordon Bleu after I graduate UVA?”

“We are. Right, my dear?” Ramon looked to Camila.

Fingering her pearls, she nodded. “If that’s truly what you want.”

“It is. The next intake for the Grand Diploma is in July—their winter session. I’m thinking I’ll move down there at the end of January after the inauguration. Get a job in a restaurant. Settle in and get used to normal life before school starts.”

“And how long is this course?” Ramon asked.

“Two and a half years.”

Camila frowned. “But surely there are cooking schools closer to home?”

“Mom, I really want to go to Australia. It doesn’t mean I’m going forever. But I’ve been dreaming of this for years.”

She looked down at her hands, fiddling with her diamond ring. “Truly? For years?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I wish you’d said something.”

“I wanted to.” Rafa hitched his shoulders. “But you always hated the idea of me cooking. Even when it was a hobby.”

She pressed her red lips together. “Yes.”

“But why? There are a million male chefs who aren’t gay, Mom.”

“Of course there are. It wasn’t that.” She shook her head. “You were always different in your own way, and I admit that scared me.” She glanced at Ramon. “We worked so hard to erase the parts of us that were different. To assimilate.”

“Republicans can be chefs, Mom.”

Camila sighed and re-crossed her legs. “Do you know what your grandfather did for a living?”

Puzzled, Rafa nodded. “He was a businessman. An entrepreneur.”

“That’s what we tell people. He was a cook. Not a chef. Nothing close to that. He cooked at a diner. And his business was cleaning grease. He had a little machine on wheels that he towed around. After a day at the grill making burgers and French fries, he cleaned the vats. Then he went to the other restaurants in the neighborhood, and he cleaned their vats too. We could never quite get rid of the smell of grease in our little apartment. Even after he died, it was like the grease hung on, a film over everything. The thought of you cooking…it made me ashamed. Like we were going backwards when we’d come so far.”