Valor on the Move (3 page)

“I wish your sister was as interested in cooking. Her poor future husband!” His mother laughed throatily. “But really, it’s not fair to go dirtying up the other kitchen, dear. The staff have so much to do already.”

As if you give a shit about the staff’s workload
. “I always clean up after myself.”

His mother’s smile faded. “You know that your father and I don’t think it’s an appropriate use of your time. Tomorrow we’ll go over your expanded foundation duties. I think you’ll be very excited with what we have planned. All right?” She didn’t wait for a response. “Excellent. Now let’s get to bed.”

There was no point in arguing. Even though Camila Castillo had eaten the food of hundreds of male chefs, cooking wasn’t a suitable interest for her son. Period. Rafa regretfully abandoned the cheese to the freezer and followed her out of the kitchen and down the hall, the only sound her high heels echoing on the polished floor. As she swept up the stairs, Brent grimaced sympathetically, and Rafa shot him a fleeting smile.

At the second floor landing, Rafa’s mother pressed a kiss to his cheek, undoubtedly leaving a red stain from her glossy lipstick.

“Get some sleep. This is your last summer in Washington, and we’re going to make it memorable. Be up early, all right? Wonderful.”

Head high and her back as straight as a ballerina’s, she was already walking toward the master bedroom as he answered, “Okay.”

His last summer in Washington.

After more than seven years, freedom was so close he could almost feel it like sunshine on his face. Next year he’d be a million miles away in Australia, learning to cook and finally dating men. The thought of actually being able to have sex sent a thrill zipping down his spine, followed by a sticky pang of longing that filled every pore.

Rafa took a deep breath.
Soon.
In the meantime, he just had to keep his head down. Seven years done, and only seven more months as the president’s son.

Piece of cake.

“Ohhh, is it the hot one?”

Shane ignored Darnell as he stepped into his boxer-briefs and switched on his electric razor. Of course Darnell was nothing if not a persistent son of a bitch. Naked, he bounded off the bed and leaned against the bathroom doorway. At six-four, he filled it with muscles, and could put on a scowl that had intimidated more than one confession out of suspects in the box at MPDC. He’d been the youngest African-American detective on the force, and had crafted a rigid and effective professional persona. But right now, in Shane’s tiny bathroom at five a.m., he was in full gossip mode.

“Okay, I’ll take your silence as a no. Oh, oh, is it the athletic one? The swimmer at Berkeley? Matthew? He’s scrumptious. Did you see his abs at the Olympic trials last year? Yum.” Darnell frowned at the razor. “Too bad there’s no scruff allowed. It’s a good look on you.” He grinned. “Can still feel the beard burn down where the sun don’t shine. Shane Kendrick, the things you do with your mouth.”

Shane smirked. “Sorry, vacation’s over.” He lifted his chin and shaved his neck. Thanks to his newly receding hairline, he kept his dark hair shorn at his scalp. Not bald, but he trimmed it close. He’d prefer facial hair to balance it out a bit, but could only indulge on time off. It had been the best thing about the past week, which was supposed to be relaxation before his new assignment. As if he could
relax
before starting this detail. He breathed through the burst of nervous adrenaline.

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

Darnell raised his eyebrows. “Is it the swimmer or not?”

“Not.”

“Oh. It’s the other one.” Darnell visibly deflated and waved a dismissive hand. “Whatshisname. Beanpole.”

“Rafael.” Shane turned his face and made sure he got all the hair from his cheek. He rattled off the briefing info. “Twenty-one years old. Just finished his junior year at UVA. Major is American Studies—whatever the hell that is. Girlfriend is Ashleigh Hastings, daughter of very wealthy South Carolina dentists. Blonde with perky tits. Currently in Paris. Rafael spends most of his time studying in his dorm room at school. This summer he’s volunteering with his mother’s foundation—the Castillo Healthy Children’s Council.”

Darnell squeezed by to piss in the toilet. “Sounds like it’ll be a thrill a minute.”

“Sounds like.” But it was an important move up. Protecting a presidential child was a step closer to getting the POTUS detail. He’d paid his dues with field offices and a stint in rural Montana. The past year in DC he’d protected senators and visiting dignitaries. Now he was ready for the White House. If it meant trailing a boring kid, it was worth it.

Darnell nudged him over at the sink and splashed his face with water. He slapped Shane’s ass lightly and reached for a towel. “Thanks for the fuck. It was just what I needed last night.”

“Me too.” Shane grinned at him in the mirror. “Hope you’re not too sore.”

“Hurts so good. Next time I’ll return the favor and pound your lily-white ass for a change.” Darnell grinned back and turned to go. “Hey, you coming by to watch the Orioles game this weekend?”

“I’ll have to see what my schedule is. I’m going to be on call a lot more now. Also, you do realize it’s not even July yet? The Orioles are on top of the league right now, but it’s a little early to get excited.”

“And there’s that sunny, optimistic attitude that wins you so many friends and influences so many people.”

“You’re one to talk, Detective Hardass.”

“My ass is nice and juicy, as you well know. Have a good first day, man. You know, I remember when I first met you, when you were in training? And you told me you were going to protect the president one day. I know you’re not quite there yet, but you’ve worked damn hard for this. Try to enjoy it, yeah?”

“I guess. It’s work.” Shane shrugged.

Darnell rolled his eyes. “Yeah, but you worked hard for this, so give yourself some credit. You’re allowed to, you know. You might even be proud of yourself or some shit like that.” He hesitated. “I know you don’t like talking about it, but they’d be really proud.”

Shane focused on his chin, pulling the razor over it. He swallowed hard. “Thanks.”

Darnell squeezed Shane’s shoulder, and when he spoke his tone was light again. “And damn, you’ve been hitting the gym harder than ever. Looking good, my friend.”

“Thanks.” Shane pushed aside the thought of his parents. Didn’t do him any good to get sentimental. “Cut way down on the carbs.” He wasn’t too bulky, but he had upped his workouts, and had to admit he was proud of the new ridges in his abs.

“I wish I could, but you know I love my pasta.”

“Good thing you can eat an entire buffet and still look like a gym queen.” He muttered under his breath, “
Prick
.”

Darnell’s teeth gleamed. “Haters to the left. Or whatever the kids are saying these days.”

“Go catch some bad guys. You should have plenty to choose from in DC.”

When Darnell closed the front door behind him a few minutes later, he shouted, “Go, Orioles!” In the silence, Shane chuckled. Same old Darnell. He was a good friend, and, once in a blue moon, a good fuck. It had never been more than that and never would, and that was exactly the way they wanted it. They were pushing forty and in the prime of their careers, and besides, making their friendship anything more would be a surefire way to fuck it up. They’d kill each other within a week.

Unbidden, Shane heard the distant echo of his mother’s voice the day Darnell had driven Shane and his visiting parents out to Monticello.
“Why just friends? He’s so handsome and smart. He has a good job too. What are you waiting for, Shane? Christmas?”

It had been years now, and he’d never met anyone he wanted to wake up beside every day.

As he came into the bedroom, Shane realized Darnell had left something on the bed. He laughed out loud when he picked up the hardcover book, the release like opening a pressure valve. A yellow note was stuck to the front.

Pro tip: No farting or belching. Also, don’t pick your nose.

The book was called
United States Protocol: The Guide to Diplomatic Etiquette
, and according to the blurb was “the perfect guide to any official event.” Shane breathed deeply as stupid nerves skittered through him. He was actually going to work at the
White House.
And not just on the grounds at a standing post, manning the perimeter at a state dinner. He was going to be inside Castle, as they called it. Inside Crown, even—the first family residence. Even if the Rafael Castillo detail was going to be boring as hell, it was worth it. He checked his watch and quickly pulled his suit from the closet. After strapping on his holster, he unlocked his Sig Sauer pistol from its metal box and gave it a quick function check. Then he attached his badge to his belt, along with his handcuffs. He could smell the coffee brewing in the narrow kitchen, and went to pour a cup.

He flipped on the TV to distract himself while he choked down a toasted bagel. The furnished apartment had come with the wall-mounted flat-screen TV, which had sold him on it. The paintings framed on the walls were hotel-room style scenes of pastoral life. It wasn’t Shane’s taste, but he didn’t even know what his taste was. There was no point in decorating or putting down roots when he could be transferred anywhere tomorrow. His gaze flicked to the one decoration that was his, sitting on a side table beside the floral couch.

The frame was silver, and as Shane picked it up and ran his fingertips over the edges, he saw it needed polishing. In the photo, he stood between his parents at his college graduation, taller than both of them, especially his mother, who only reached his shoulder. She’d just snatched the black mortar off his head and put it on, the yellow tassel hanging over her face. All three of them laughed. Shane’s father wore a new suit he’d bought just for the occasion, even though Shane had assured him it wasn’t a big deal.

“Like heck it isn’t. My only child is graduating from college. Deals don’t get much bigger than this, my boy.”

His last bite of bagel was still in his mouth, and he forced it down as he returned the frame to the table, angling it away. Six years now, and at times it felt like forever. But sometimes it hit like a ton of fresh fucking bricks, and he rubbed impatiently at the sting in his eyes.
If I’d been there…

No. This wasn’t the damn day for it. It was time for work. Time to be his best, and his best didn’t include…
this
.

A red headline flashed up on CNN, screaming of a dire threat to the life and liberty of the United States due to an incoming storm front. Standing in the entry to the galley kitchen, Shane watched the early morning anchors and their pinched faces. He didn’t bother turning on the sound.

The drive to the unmarked headquarters building on H Street was quick, with early dawn fortunately one of the few times traffic in DC wasn’t a fucking nightmare. After he went through a security check, he drove his silver Yukon down into the garage below the building, smiling as he spotted Alan Pearce leaning against a black Suburban. Most of the service vehicles they called G-rides were Suburbans or sedans, with some limos sprinkled in. All were black, of course.

When Shane parked and joined him, Alan held out his arms with a grin. “Ready for the big show, Agent Kendrick? Well, it’s more like the pre-show, but we’re close. Damn good to see you, Kenny.” Pearce extended his hand, and then pulled Shane into a back-slapping hug. “Apparently you’re stuck with me again. We can relive our glory days from the Albany field office.”

Shane stepped back and gave him an exaggerated once-over. “How long has it been? You’re looking old.” Shit. As soon as the joke left his mouth, he realized the last time he’d seen Alan had been Jessica’s funeral.

But Alan only laughed. “Yeah, fuck you very much too. I’m forty-one, and if I recall correctly you’re not that far behind.”

Pearce actually looked hot as hell with threads of gray at his temples in his dirty blond hair. His green eyes still popped, and his grin was boyish. His lanky frame filled out his dark suit nicely, and if Alan was gay, Shane would have tapped that ass years ago. “Still thirty-nine for a few more months.” He paused.
Should I ask? Is it rude to not ask? Or is it rude
to
ask?
“How are Jules and Dylan?”

Alan’s smile tightened, and he hitched a shoulder. “Okay. We’re doing our best. One day at a time and all that shit.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and pressed his lips together. “It’s been tough. Especially now that Dylan’s been diagnosed.”

Son of a bitch.
Life really knew how to kick certain people in the nuts over and over. Losing his parents had been harder than Shane had ever thought possible, but it was still the natural order of things. He could only imagine what Alan felt to lose his daughter—and now possibly his son too. “God, I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

“No, but thank you. It’s genetic.” He laughed harshly. “My genes, to be specific. I passed down this shitty disease, but I’m fine. Just going to end up killing my kids. Guess it’s good Jules and I only had the two.”

“God. I’m sorry. There’s nothing the doctors can do?”

Alan scuffed the toe of his leather shoe over the concrete floor of the garage. “There’s an experimental treatment. Swedish doctor. We’re saving up.”

Shane had never had kids, and never really thought much about them. But he’d met Jessica once as a baby, and she’d clutched his finger and flashed a crooked little grin, and his heart clenched to think of that smile gone now. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have your child die. To watch them waste away. “If I can help, just say the word.” He couldn’t call a clear image of Dylan to mind, but the kid had to be seven or so by now. Shane couldn’t remember the name of the rare disease they were afflicted with, but he wasn’t about to ask.

“Thanks. I’m trying not to think about it too much. Makes it hard to get out of bed if I do. So if you don’t mind, I’d rather focus on the job. Or sports. Or even politics. Pretty much anything else.”

“You got it.”

Alan tossed him the keys with a smile. “Come on. Showtime.”