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.
“Heading out?” Brent asked. He was tall and a little paunchy, and his dark hair was graying.
“Just getting a snack. I won’t be long.”
Brent nodded. “Thanks for letting me know, Rafa.”
Rafa continued into the darkened kitchen. It was blissfully empty, and he exhaled. If he’d been Adriana or their brother Matthew, Brent would have probably followed in a minute to double check that they weren’t trying to sneak out. Not that they’d be able to get past the gate, but just being outside on the grounds without their detail was a big no-no. But Rafa had never tried to give his agents the slip. They were only doing their jobs, and there was no sense in being a pain.
Low lights under cabinets cast shadows over the counters and huge island, and he could see well enough to keep the overhead lights off. As he opened the door to the walk-in fridge, his pulse raced. Goosebumps immediately spread over his bare arms, and the light automatically came on over his head.
He surveyed the shelves quickly, scanning the containers for what he needed. He was sure Magda would keep prosciutto on hand, and hoped he’d luck out on the goat cheese. She never minded if he borrowed a few ingredients.
Okay, it was technically stealing, not borrowing. His parents paid for all the food the family ate that wasn’t for an official state function or party, and he knew the ingredients he snuck out were added to their tab. In the early days, Chris had had his college friends over for a party while their parents were out of town, one of his rare displays of rebellion.
He’d ordered a ton of snacks from the kitchen, and their parents had made him pay back every penny. Rafa would happily buy the prosciutto and cheese himself, but then there would be the inevitable questions. He couldn’t just drop into the ShopRite. His detail would know, and if his mom asked them, he didn’t want them to have to lie. Besides, it was a dumb thing to even ask them to lie about. It was easier to just make do.
He grabbed a log of goat cheese and moved to the walk-in freezer. He kept the door open, shivering as he surveyed the shelves for prosciutto. “Come on, come on…” He went through what little meat there was, hoping Magda kept some emergency ham on hand. Most ingredients were fresh, and it looked like he was shit out of luck.
Over the hum of the industrial fan, heels clacked a moment before he heard, “Darling, shouldn’t you be in bed?”
He jumped despite himself, blinking into the blank darkness of the kitchen as he tucked the goat cheese onto the shelf by his hand. His mother’s tall silhouette moved into the freezer doorway, and Rafa forced a smile. “Just getting a snack.” He reached for the nearest carton of ice cream. Had she bribed Brent to narc on him? Not that First Lady Camila Castillo needed to grease the wheels—she only need ask, and most people were too terrified not to comply immediately.
“Good idea. Still need to put some meat on those bones.” She said it with a smile, but a hot rush of embarrassment washed over him. He’d grown to almost six feet during college, and though he’d put on muscle over the years, he still felt like he had knobby knees and elbows. He hunched his shoulders as he closed the freezer door.
Rafa went to one of the many cutlery drawers for a spoon, feeling his mother’s eyes on him. When he glanced up, she raised her hand to the string of pearls around her neck. Even in the low light, they shone. She wore an unwrinkled pencil skirt and white blouse, and her black hair was sculpted into an up-do. Sometimes he suspected she slept in a hermetically sealed tube especially designed not to muss her hair.
“Still working, Mom? Shouldn’t you be in bed too?” Camila Castillo had many rules, one of which was to always dress appropriately for the task at hand. If she was working, she was dressed for success, no matter how late or early it might be.
“Touché. But yes, I have quite a bit of foundation business to take care of before my next trip.”
“Why don’t you let your staff do it? Isn’t that what they get paid for?”
She smiled, her lipstick shimmering. “Sometimes to have a task done right, one must do it oneself.”
Since he’d likely done plenty of things wrong lately, Rafa changed the subject and asked, “How’s Aunt Gabby?”
“She’s well. Visiting her cousins.”
His mother had a habit of talking about her extended family as relations of her sister and brother, but not her own. “In Mexico City? How long is she there?” Rafa twirled his spoon. His grandparents had all passed away by the time he was old enough to really know them, and he hadn’t seen his Aunt Gabriella since Christmas. Granted, he didn’t see her much. She’d never gotten along with his father, and he felt like his mother thought her family was simply far too…ethnic. “Maybe I could—”
“Darling. You know how dangerous it can be there. It’s not a good idea.”
“But I’ve still never been. It can’t be that dangerous. I mean, you lived there when you were little.”
His mother’s full name was Camila Castillo de Saucedo, but after his father had quit his law firm and gone into politics full time to make a run at the Jersey governorship, she’d dropped the traditional Mexican naming convention. Rafa and his siblings had always just been Castillo, his father’s name.
His parents had worked hard to make them into the whitest, most non-threatening Hispanics Republican money could buy while still courting the Latino vote with great success. He still wasn’t sure how they’d pulled it off, but here they were.
“Besides, I’d have my detail, Mom.”
She tilted her head, looking at him with clear exasperation. “We’ve discussed this before. My parents left the old world behind to make a new life for us here in America.” For a moment he was afraid she might launch into her full American dream speech. “Why would I ever want to go back? Or want my children to go back? This is your home. The greatest country in the world.”
Before she could really get going, Rafa nodded. “Yeah, okay. You’re right. As always.” He smiled.
“Of course I am.” She laughed softly and then was silent for a moment. “Well, I wanted to tell you I had a chat with your detail leader today.”
Rafa’s heart skipped a beat even though he hadn’t done anything wrong. “Okay.” He dug his spoon into the carton and stuffed his mouth with mint chocolate chip so he didn’t have to say anything else.
She grimaced. “A bowl, Rafael, please. Let’s be civilized, shall we?”
He mumbled, “Sorry,” through his ice cream and pulled down a bowl from one of the cupboards. “You want some?”
“No, dear.” She patted her trim waist. “As I was saying, there’s going to be a change to your detail starting tomorrow.”
Rafa paused with his spoon hovering over the carton. “What kind of change?”
“Five of the agents are being reassigned, and you’ll only have two agents total at a time with you.”
“Who’s being reassigned?” His twenty-four-hour detail had three rotating shifts with two primary agents who stayed close to him when he was outside the White House, and at least one or two secondary agents on point, depending on where he was going and the threat level.
“I’m not sure.” She waved her hand dismissively, her polished nails catching the light. “It doesn’t matter, does it?”
He scooped a few blobs of ice cream into the bowl. “It matters to me. I get to say goodbye, right? I want to say goodbye.”
She sighed. “Darling, you know this is why they change our details every year. We can’t get too attached. The agents are less effective when we do. We’re all being switched.”
With his mother on one side of the island, Rafa stood across from her. He filled his mouth before he could snort derisively. The Secret Service changed their detail teams every year so the agents wouldn’t get too attached to them, but no one was under any illusions that would happen with Camila. The only time she remembered any of their names was to order them to perform some menial task not in their job description. He could only imagine how eager her agents were to be reassigned. But Rafa’s agents had always seemed to like him. Not that they’d show it if they didn’t.
“But it’s June now, and the election’s in November. We’ll be gone in January. Why change now? We’re almost done.”
“The more experienced agents are needed with the candidates’ families, especially as the election draws nearer. Livingston has six children, and all those grandchildren. Apparently they need to beef up security. We all know he’s going to win, whether we like it or not.”
Camila Castillo most decidedly did not like it. Rafa ate another spoonful so he wouldn’t smile. His mother would clutch her pearls if she knew he was totally going to vote for Democrat Stephen Livingston instead of his father’s Republican successor, Tom Margulies. The country was ready for a regime change, even though nothing would really change at all with Congress and the Senate so partisan. Having been at the heart of the American government half his life, Rafa found it all rather depressing how little ever changed for the better.
“I still want to say goodbye to my agents.” With a pang, he hoped Joanna and Stuart weren’t going. “I guess it makes sense, though.”
She sighed, and her voice was unusually sad. “Yes, I suppose. Soon we’ll be out on our ear.” If she could, Rafa’s mother would surely hang on to the White House until they pried it from her cold, dead hands. Abe Lincoln’s ghost was definitely going to end up with some company down the road. Rafa could already imagine his mother floating around the sedate hallways, passing judgment on future First Ladies’ choice of china patterns.
“Mom, we had two terms. Not too shabby. Won’t it be nice to get back to regular life?” It was beyond weird to think of his parents moving back to New Jersey. “You must miss it, right? Even a little?” he asked hopefully. He didn’t like to think of her unhappy.
She smiled. “A little.”
Leaning across the island, he held out a spoonful of ice cream. “Come on. One bite won’t hurt.”
“I suppose not.” She met him halfway and gracefully took the spoon. After she swallowed, she stared at the curved metal. “It’ll all just seem so…small. I…” She stopped.
Rafa barely whispered, holding his breath. “What?” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his mother anything but perfectly poised and on message.
“It’s a strange feeling, to know the most important days of your life have gone by.” She kept her eyes on the spoon. “That you’ll never do anything else that could possibly compare.”
“Mom…” Rafa wanted to reach out to her, but as he moved, her gaze snapped up and she smiled, her mask back in place.
“Never mind that silliness. Have you talked to Ashleigh? How’s she enjoying Paris?” She held the spoon back over the island.
He took it and played with the melting ice cream in his bowl. “It’s good. She loves it.”
“Won’t you be lonely all summer?”
“It’s fine. We still talk all the time.”
“Rafa, just be sure you stay connected. This is a crucial time in your relationship as you go into your last semester of university. You have to plan for the future. We need to talk about where you’d like to start your career in the new year. Your father and I have some ideas. Why don’t you tell me more about what you learned at the seminar? We haven’t discussed it properly.”
“I told you it was good.”
She raised a delicately penciled eyebrow. “That’s all you have to say about it?”
What he wanted to say was: Actually, I hated every minute. I don’t want to be a young leader, or make connections and smile and pretend to be interested in goddamned politics or the Republican Party. But it counted as an extra half credit, and I’ve worked my butt off to be able to graduate early. He shrugged. “It was interesting, I guess. Helped me think about the future.” In that it cemented his determination to stay far, far away from politics or the corporate world.
“Did you make any promising connections? You know you can’t just ride your father’s coattails. You have to make a name for yourself the way Christian has.”
“Uh-huh.” He chewed on a minty sweet mouthful, and his stomach clenched. He knew he’d have to tell his parents the truth before too much longer, but he still had a little time.
“And a lovely young lady like Ashleigh isn’t going to wait around forever to settle down. Don’t take her for granted, sweetheart.”
“I won’t. I promise.” He and Ash had already planned their breakup for after the new president’s inauguration. They’d taken summer school and every extra credit they could to be able to finish classes in December. In January, they’d both come out to their parents, and with any luck Rafa would be heading to the other side of the world—without Secret Service agents tailing his every move. His parents would have protection for life, but he would finally be free. The thought of the secret plan quickened his pulse. Not long now.
“She’s a keeper, Rafael. Don’t let her go. Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”
Rafa stared at his bowl, and his mother’s gaze across the island felt unbearably heavy. He’d always been so diligent in hiding any hints of who he really was. Hadn’t he? Here in the shadows, he felt certain his mother could peer right into his heart. And was she telling him to stay hidden? Or was he letting his imagination run away on him?
“All right, we should get to bed, don’t you think?” Her soft laughter was lilting. “I know, I know, you’re not a baby anymore.”
Rafa rinsed the bowl and spoon in one of the sinks. “I’ll be right up, Mom.” He needed to get the goat cheese out of the freezer.
As if she could read his mind like a news ticker, she said, “Darling, you’re not planning on using the Diet Kitchen again for your little…experiments, are you?”
He shrugged as he continued rinsing the now-clean bowl. “I was maybe going to make a few things. It’s just for fun.”
“We talked about this. You really should be devoting your time to more substantial activities. I’d like you to take a bigger role this summer at the foundation.”
“Uh-huh.” His mother’s foundation did good work, and as long as he didn’t have to do any public speaking, he was happy to help. “I will.” He finally put down the bowl and turned off the tap, plastering a smile on his face as he turned. “It’s only a hobby.”
“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.
Test of Valor #2
Chapter One
When people ask if it was worth giving up his Secret Service career to run away with the president’s son, Shane Kendrick tells them: abso-fucking-lutely.
But this morning in their little tent pitched on the beach, a knot cinched in Shane’s gut, his heart thumping. Rafa wasn’t warm and mumbling in his sleep beside him, and Shane fisted his fingers in the empty blanket.
The awful dream images were still too close to the surface—Shane’s feet hopelessly stuck and Rafa snatched away. Waking alone, Shane choked on panic, bile rising in his throat. Naked, he crawled out of the tent and pushed to his feet, ready to run. Ready to fight.
He released a gasp of relief, instantly spotting Rafa a few hundred yards away by the shoreline. It was a Monday morning on a secluded stretch of beach north of Byron Bay in mid-June, and they fortunately had the place to themselves.
Shane’s heart still beat too fast and sweat dampened his brow as he watched Rafa wading through the surf in the distance, foamy water swirling around his ankles. Skin tanned, he looked like a local in a purple hoodie, board shorts riding low on his lean hips. He was fucking beautiful, his curls shaggy and wild around his head.
The tide was returning with a steady rumbling gurgle, the sun already up in the cloud-splattered blue sky. Nearby, a gull shrieked and flapped its wings, bickering with another bird over a treat that had washed up on the golden sand.
Shane inhaled the fresh air deeply, willing the lingering tension in his limbs and the thudding of his heart to ease. The dreams—all right, nightmares—were similar but never quite the same. This time it wasn’t mud in a rest stop parking lot that turned to quicksand, keeping him mired as Rafa was carried away by masked men, screaming for help.
This time, the quicksand was on a sunny, perfect beach like this one. It had sucked him down, freezing him in place. In the dream, he’d tried over and over to get his feet to move, limbs useless as he’d tasted his own blood. Gunshots rang in his ears as he struggled, and he failed miserably as nameless shapes dragged Rafa out of reach.
As he gazed at Rafa, Shane breathed in the fresh sea air again—brine and seaweed and a crisp sunny sweetness. You’re awake. He’s all right. Let it go.
He closed his eyes, counting to five. When he opened them, the time for letting the nightmare bother him would be officially past. They’d had such a peaceful week away, and he couldn’t let anything ruin their last day before heading back to Sydney. At least Rafa had already left the tent when the nightmare hit. Shane didn’t want him to worry over nothing.
The dreams had started recently without warning and for no good reason, and Shane didn’t see why they wouldn’t disappear just as quickly. No sense in making a big deal out it.
Well, okay. Maybe they hadn’t started completely unprompted. The first had come the night after Shane had been told he’d have to testify at a special inquest in DC. His former partner—former friend, his clenching stomach reminded him—had pleaded guilty to treason and was serving life with no possibility of parole. Alan had been lucky to escape the death penalty. He likely only had because Rafa had pleaded for leniency.
Shane’s heart swelled watching him kick at the surf. After what Alan had done, most people would hate him, but not Rafa. Digging his toes into the warming sand near the shrubbery and trees growing at the edge of the beach, Shane watched him and tried not to think about the damned inquiry.
It was reasonable that the Secret Service needed to understand just how such a massive breach of security had occurred under their noses. How one of their agents had been turned by terrorists. Not that Shane could understand it himself.
He tried again to push away the thoughts of Alan’s betrayal and how it had nearly cost Rafa his life. The memory of finding Rafa squeezed into that box…
Stop!
The nightmares were weak and useless enough—he didn’t need to ruin his days by torturing himself with what-ifs and should-haves. At least the Secret Service had agreed Shane could testify by satellite linkup. He needed to stop thinking about it until his testimony, and then he could put it all behind him. And Rafa would never have to know about the ridiculous nightmares. Shane hadn’t disturbed him with them yet, and he needed to keep it that way.
He stretched his arms over his head, the wind tickling his bare flesh. The Aussies might have found this winter morning on the chilly side, but to him it was perfect—a cool breeze offsetting the heat of the sun.
He ran a hand over his stubble. Not shaving every day was a little thing, but it still made him happy. He still kept his head shorn since his hairline was receding more and more with each passing month. Once he launched his security consulting business, he’d be groomed and back in suits, but for now he would enjoy being naked and scruffy.
After pissing by a shrub and brushing his teeth with a jug of water, he once again studied Rafa down the beach, Rafa stopping every so often to crouch and pick up seashells abandoned by the tide. His collection was in a glass jar on the windowsill in their rented bungalow’s bathroom. Soon, he’d need another jar, and Shane envisioned the sill being squeezed full as the months went by. He smiled.
Squinting at a flash of movement in the distance, he lifted his hand to shield his eyes, spotting a man and dog. He calculated their distance to Rafa, who was still peering intently at something in the sand, then started to jog over before remembering he was naked.
Stop. Breathe. He’s safe.
It was only a man walking his dog—not paparazzi or terrorists. Still, he once again eyed the distances between them all. Shane could be at Rafa’s side in approximately twenty seconds running full-out, taking into account the slowing effect of sand.
A lot can happen in twenty seconds.
Although the clouds were fluffy and white, not heavy and gray, for a few thumping heartbeats, phantom rain drenched his skin, the steady rumble of the waves transforming to thunder. Gunshots echoed in his mind as he collapsed to the mud in the darkness, an utter failure, Rafa taken. His breath hitched, and he ran a finger over the scar on the left side of his head above his ear.
He almost expected to feel the hot slick of blood, the bullet somehow only grazing him, mercifully not piercing his skull. The remembered terror of realizing Rafa was gone swooped through his stomach now even as he told himself Rafa was right there, safe and whole and smiling to himself as he waded in the surf.
Shaking his head, Shane resolutely turned away and tugged on his board shorts. He was supposed to be over the nightmare, not dredging it up again. Besides, Rafa might get irritated if Shane raced over like a mother hen.
It had taken weeks before Shane had gotten accustomed to him being out of arm’s reach, and he still didn’t like it. But Rafa was a grown man, and Shane had to get over himself.
He sat on the log they’d dragged to their fire pit the night before and pondered starting the fire to make coffee. But for the moment, he simply sat and breathed in and out, watching Rafa throw a rock into the water, still trying to perfect his skimming technique.
The man and black Labrador eventually disappeared back the way they’d come, and the remaining tension in Shane’s shoulders dissipated. The paps hadn’t bothered them in a while now.
After US Weekly had broken the story about the romance between the ex-president’s gay son and the older Secret Service agent who’d rescued him from evil kidnappers, there had been a flurry of attention. But they’d laid low, living off Shane’s savings.
Now they were old news, and most Aussies either didn’t recognize them, didn’t give a shit, or were too nice to say anything. Shane had quietly laid the groundwork for his security consulting firm, and Rafa was due to start at Sydney’s Cordon Bleu campus next month.
When Rafa’s parents arrived all too soon for their first visit, it would probably get stirred up again in the press, but hopefully it would all be short-lived. Shane shifted uncomfortably at the thought of making small talk with the Castillos. Ugh. He wondered if he’d know any of the agents on their detail and just how incredibly fucking awkward it would all be.
Before he could run through the litany of horrifying potential scenarios, he forced his mind back to the present. It was just the two of them, miles from anything, with the tide coming in and hopefully bringing breaking waves with it.
He dug his phone out of his duffel in the tent and snapped a few pictures of Rafa silhouetted on the sand. There was barely a cell signal on the beach, but he pulled up WhatsApp and was able to send a pic to Darnell with the caption:
Morning view. Hope it’s a good night in DC.
Darnell usually sent him pictures of traffic jams and overflowing trash cans in return, along with at least one frowning selfie and mock complaints that Shane was rubbing it in. Chuckling to himself in anticipation, Shane tucked his phone in his pocket and watched Rafa walk back, grinning when Rafa waved and picked up his pace.
Rafa reached into his shorts pocket when he reached their little camp. “Got some good ones. Look how purple this one is.” He carefully extracted the shells and held out his flat palm, bending to kiss Shane lightly.
“Beautiful.” Shane ran his finger over the gentle curves of the delicate treasures. “Sure there’s nothing living in these?”
Rafa huffed good-naturedly. “No closed shells, I promise. Only needed to learn that stinky lesson once.” He slid them into a Ziploc and stowed them. “Ready for breakfast? I was thinking bacon. Because…well, bacon.”
Shane’s phone buzzed, and he took it out of his pocket and opened WhatsApp. Darnell’s face scowled from the screen, his tie loosened, the beige and brown detective squad room visible behind him. His normally short afro was getting a little long, and there were bags under his eyes. As the youngest African-American detective on the force, he often said he had to work twice as hard and be three times as smart as his colleagues.
Caught a triple homicide. Glad to see you’re working hard down there, you bastard. Hope you and your boy are good. Stay in touch. Two texts in one week—you’re on a roll. I’ll send you a vext later.
On his commute, Darnell would sometimes record a voice message on WhatsApp—what he called a “vext.” He’d talk about whatever was on his mind, and Shane enjoyed listening to his friend ramble.
“Shane?”
He glanced up. “Sorry, what were you saying? Got a message from Darnell.” He showed Rafa the screen.
Rafa’s dark brows drew close. “I’m not a boy.”
“What?” Shane reread the text. “Oh. He doesn’t mean anything by it.”
“Yeah. It’s cool.” Rafa thrust his hands in his pockets. “Um, say hi or whatever. And I was talking about bacon.”
Shane quickly typed out a response that they were indeed good and not to work too hard, then stood and tugged Rafa near. Rafa was tense in his arms, and Shane slid a hand over Rafa’s cheek. “Darnell really didn’t mean anything.”
Shaking his head, Rafa blew out a breath and melted into Shane’s touch. “I know. I’m oversensitive about it. Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” He kissed him softly, then murmured, “Maybe bacon can be dessert.”
“I brought passion fruit for dessert.” Rafa looped his arms around Shane’s neck, eyes wide with faux innocence. “Unless you’re talking about something else altogether. In which case, I’m just not following.”
“I’m talking about fucking you. Sorry that wasn’t clear.” Shane ran his hands over Rafa’s ass, nuzzling his neck.
“Oh, is that what you meant? Well. I suppose I’ll let you.” He bit the lobe of Shane’s ear and whispered, “How do you want me?”
“Hmm. So many options.” Shane leaned back and ran his finger over the freckles that stood out beautifully on Rafa’s cheeks and across his nose.
Rafa caught Shane’s finger in his mouth, nipping it playfully. “How about I take a ride?”
Shane’s cock swelled at the thought, and he ground his hips against Rafa. “Giddy up.” He glanced around the still-empty beach. “We should probably go back in the tent.”
“Nah. Not enough room in there. I don’t want to hide.” Rafa shoved down his shorts with an impetuous grin and kicked them free. “No one’s around.” After peeling off his hoodie, he stood naked, fingers twitching.
Shane knew it was unwise, but he couldn’t resist Rafa’s loose-limbed enthusiasm. As the president’s closeted son, his true self had been bottled up for so long. Shane couldn’t deny him anything now.
He stripped off his shorts and wound up flat on his back on a towel with Rafa naked and straddling him, impatiently squirting lube and fingering himself open. Rafa bit his lip in concentration, and Shane ran his hands up and down Rafa’s flexing thighs.
“That’s it. Get yourself ready for me. You’re so fucking beautiful.”
Rafa blushed, and Shane knew it wasn’t because he was naked with his fingers shoved in his ass on a beach where anyone might stumble along. No, even after five months of being together, Rafa twitched with discomfort when Shane told him how good-looking he was, how perfect.
So Shane said it repeatedly, and would say it over and over and over as long as he had breath. “You’re gorgeous, baby.”
“You are,” Rafa murmured, his usual reply.
“Ready for my cock?”
A grin spread over Rafa’s face. “Always.” Impaling himself, he moaned, the sound shooting right to Shane’s balls as heat surrounded his cock.
As the months had gone by, Shane had wondered if the sex would start to get boring. He’d always thought it must after a while in a monogamous relationship. But as he watched Rafa sink down on his cock, squeezing it tightly and sending sparks to Shane’s toes, he couldn’t imagine how it ever would. Not with Rafa.
He pushed himself up on one hand to lick Rafa’s dusky nipples and tease the sprinkle of hair on his chest as Rafa sank all the way. Rafa rocked back and forth, little movements of his hips as they breathed harder. He loved being fucked, and God, did Shane love fucking him.
With his other hand, Shane reached around to where his cock filled Rafa, skimming his finger over Rafa’s sensitive, stretched hole. He’d always enjoyed being inside a tight ass. But with Rafa, it was more than merely pushing into his body—Shane imagined he could reach all the way to his heart.
Barking out a laugh at his own ridiculously sappy thought, he flopped back down to the towel, bending his legs and thrusting up. Rafa gazed down at him with a dazed smile and asked, “What?”
He shook his head. “Just happy.” He stroked Rafa’s cock lazily, glancing left and right to make sure they were still alone on the beach. Pushing down the foreskin, he ran his thumb over the glistening head, gathering pre-cum. Then he lifted his hand to Rafa’s mouth and slipped his thumb between his lips. Rafa sucked it clean with an eager tongue.
“You like that, hmm?” Shane asked. “My little cum slut.” He could see the pleasure ripple through Rafa as he nodded, sucking harder on Shane’s thumb. The first time Rafa had asked Shane to call him that, he’d blushed furiously, eyes downcast.
Shane wondered how much farther Rafa wanted to go down that path of submission, but there was plenty of time for them to explore that. He pulled his thumb free and pinched Rafa’s nipples one after the other, making him cry out.
It was a joy watching Rafa bloom out of the shadow of the White House, and it was sure as hell a joy having a front-row seat for his discovery of sex. Shane had never had it this good, and as Rafa rode him with increasing speed, bracing his palms on Shane’s chest, curls swaying, Shane was the luckiest goddamn man alive.
But for how long? What if he eventually wants more than me? Someone his own age? I’m only getting older, and he’s still so young…
Shane tried to shove the thoughts away, concentrating on Rafa’s gasps and moans as he fucked himself, so tight and hot and breathless. Rafa was heavy on top of him, a delicious weight, glistening with sweat, gloriously alive. His cock throbbed in Shane’s grasp.
He’s starting classes next month. Driving the highways every day. There could be an accident. Anything can happen in a blink. And Jesus, how am I going to face his parents? What if he eventually gives into their disapproval? It’s easy to say he doesn’t care what they think, but he does.
Shane could hear Darnell sighing in his head and saying, “The future will take care of its damn self.”
Rafa frowned down at him, his movements slowing. “What are you worrying about?”
“Nothing, baby. Keep going. I’m close.” He stroked Rafa’s cock with renewed intent.
But Rafa stayed where he was, stilling his motion with Shane’s dick all the way inside him, gently batting Shane’s hand off his shaft. He rubbed two fingers between Shane’s eyebrows, smoothing out the furrow. “What are you worrying about?” he repeated.
“The future. I know, I know.”
Rafa leaned down and kissed him, licking into his mouth. His breath tickled Shane’s lips as he whispered, “Whatever happens, it’ll be okay. Because we’ll be together. It’ll be more than okay. It’ll be amazing.”
Shane nodded. “Glass half full.”
“I’ll make you an optimist, I swear.”
Clutching Rafa’s hips, Shane dug his heels into the sand and thrust up, both of them gasping. Fucking raw was still a revelation, the slick grip of Rafa’s ass like the sweetest fire. The sun glared above, and Shane’s whole body went hot, gritty sand sticking to his slick skin despite the towel.
“You gonna give it to me?” Rafa asked breathlessly, lips parted.
“Fuck, yes.” Shane held him still and rammed up, nudging his swollen prostate on every stroke.
Rafa threw his head back, crying out and muttering, “Uh, uh, uh…” His cock bobbed, but Shane didn’t touch it now, focusing on Rafa’s ass and pounding his gland from different angles. He straightened out his legs, giving Rafa more room to maneuver. “Come on. That’s it. Spray your cum all over me.”
Rafa’s cock strained and leaked, flushed dark red. Leaning his hands back on Shane’s thighs, he arched, squeezing his ass, the sight and tight sensation stealing Shane’s breath. His tan skin smooth to the touch, Rafa moaned, wild rings of curls spilling over his ears. His cry echoed over the beach as he came, splatting Shane’s chest and neck with warm jizz.
After thrusting up a few times, Shane let go, emptying into him with low groans until they were both panting. “Love you, Raf,” he muttered, his orgasm leaving him wrung out and vibrating with satisfaction.
Rafa flopped down, and Shane wrapped his arms around him. They were a sticky, sweaty mess, and the cool breeze danced over their skin. His dick softened, and he slipped it out, tenderly caressing Rafa’s stretched, wet hole.
“I love the feel of your cum inside me,” Rafa mumbled, kissing Shane’s neck. “Sometimes I think I’ll wake up and be back there in my room with wet sheets.”
Shane knew there was the White House. “You’re as far away as you can get. I promise. That cum in your ass is very real.”
Rafa laughed softly. “You sure? I used to have some very vivid dreams.”
Gently inching a finger inside, Shane played with the wet mess. “Positive.” He caught Rafa’s mouth in a long, slow kiss, and they broke apart when Shane’s stomach rumbled.
“What was that you were saying about breakfast?” he asked.
Laughing, Rafa nipped his shoulder. “I was saying you were going to cook for me for a change.”
“Hmm. That’s not how I recall that conversation.”
Rafa lifted his head, an exaggerated frown on his face. “Maybe you’re having a senior moment. Should I be worried?”
“Oh, it’s like that, is it?” He shoved Rafa off him, and they wrestled in the sand, rolling over and over and getting absolutely filthy. They raced into the waves, their laughter echoing with the seagulls’ cries.
