It’s modest, but after a lifetime spent barely holding on, former car thief Peter Bauer is proud of what he’s managed to achieve. He’s got a legal, legitimate job as a mechanic, a firm grasp on his addictions, and a steady relationship with Nikos Petrakis—stable, handsome, and recently widowed. Nothing is going to upset that, not the ever-present memory of Nik's wife, not the claustrophobia Peter is starting to feel trapped in domestic bliss, not even the sudden reappearance of Peter's ex—the sexy and dangerous Stavros Giannopoulos.
But when Nik's daughter goes missing, Peter will be forced back into the seedy underbelly of the LA crime world, where anything goes. Can his and Nik's relationship survive? Can Peter?
Backstreets is the second book in Kat Cassidy’s Hot Wire M/M romance series which contains themes of crime, suspense, family drama, hurt/comfort, dark humor, addiction, and abuse. It should not be read as a standalone. Rated M for mature.
Read an excerpt…
Hot Wire: Backstreets
Prologue
GIANNOPOULOS, DEMITRIUS Kristo
It is with great sadness that the family of Demitrius Kristo Giannopoulos announces his sudden passing on Saturday, August 17, at the age of sixty-one. Demitri will be lovingly remembered by his children, Adara (Christopher), Matteo (Diana), and Stavros (Stasia). Demitri was predeceased by his devoted wife of twenty years, Lenore Giannopoulos (née Rosso).
A memorial service for Demitri will be held on Tuesday, August 20 at 3:00 p.m. at the Saint Sofia Greek Orthodox Cathedral, 5546 West 15th Street, with Father Alec Tahvo officiating. Interment will follow in the family plot.
Those who so desire may make donations in memory of Demitri to the Greek Heritage Club of Southern California.
The obit didn’t mean much if you didn’t know what you were looking at.
But if you did, it held promises.
Power.
Opportunity.
War.
Chapter One
It was three in the morning and Peter Bauer was wide awake. The ceiling fan rotated lazily above him; its incessant whirring did almost nothing to drown out the sound of Nik’s seismic snoring. Nikos Petrakis was the best boyfriend Peter had ever had by a longshot. He was caring and handsome and stable, and sometimes Peter fantasized about smothering him in his sleep with a goddamn pillow.
Peter was sweating beside Nik on the cramped double mattress. He briefly contemplated if it was worth it to try to shove Nik over onto his side, but decided against it. Peter was a long way off from sleep anyway.
Peter peeled back the sheets and stood, sliding on his glasses from the bedside table. He moved silently across the dark room to gather a pair of basketball shorts and a t- shirt from his duffle bag. Nikos didn’t stir. Peter liked to think that this was because he still had his thief’s stealth, but, honestly, Nik was just such a deep sleeper that the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade could’ve marched through the bedroom and he wouldn’t have woken up.
The truth was that after almost a year of living straight, Peter felt painfully rusty. He knew he didn’t need the life anymore, but part of him felt uneasy about losing his edge. It might have been a fucked up security blanket of a skillset to want, but it had been the only thing that had kept him alive for the better part of thirty-three years. He wasn’t sure who he was anymore without it.
Peter stole out into the hall towards the kitchen, pulling on articles of clothing as he went. He’d heard Nina get up to feed baby Teddy half-an-hour ago, but the house was quiet now. He poured himself a glass of water from the tap and dried his hands on the tea towel after he’d finished. The towel was printed with stylized avocados and the phrase ‘holy guacamole.’ It was one of the overly twee touches in this place that reminded Peter that he had slotted himself imperfectly into somebody else’s life. Helena’s fingerprints were still all over this house. She was the dead one, but sometimes Peter felt like he was the ghost here.
Peter slipped quietly into the double garage. It was the one space in the house that was wholly Nik’s. He didn’t bother to turn on the light. The moonlight streaming in through the window was sufficient and he knew the way. He headed to the beat-up old leather sofa on the far end of the room. Every so often, Peter came out here when Nik’s snoring or his own insecurity got to be too much for him.
Nik’s daughter Mia had left a rubber ball on one of the seats. He rolled it back and forth between his hands, then threw it against the concrete floor. The ball ricocheted off the wall with a low sound and returned to him. He caught it and repeated the motion, losing himself in the rhythm of bounce-thump-catch like a man confined to solitary in a prison movie.
The light flicked on, surprising him, and Peter released his throw early. The ball sailed into the wall far too hard and then bounced directly over his head. It hit Nina’s Chevy Cruze with a tinny thud and rolled to a stop at the foot of the stairs.
Nina was standing in the doorway, looking curiously between Peter and the ball. “What the hell are you doing out here?”
Peter’s relationship with Nik’s sister-in-law had reached a détente, though Peter mostly still tried to stay out of her way when Nik wasn’t around to buffer the conversation. His finger idly traced the bullet hole she had left in the sofa the first day she and Peter had met.
“I couldn’t sleep,” he answered honestly.
It didn’t escape Peter’s notice that Nina was fully dressed. She was carrying a small metallic briefcase and the recycling bin from under the kitchen sink.
Curiosity got the better of him. “What about you?”
“Teddy woke me up. I couldn’t get back to sleep either.” She regarded him carefully for a moment and seemed to make up her mind about something. She jangled the bin. “I was going to go shoot some cans. Want to come?”
Peter grinned. “Abso-fucking-lutely.” This was exactly the kind of reckless shit he’d been missing.
They set up on the undeveloped edge of Nik’s subdivision, beside a huge dirt berm left by contractors digging the foundations of almost two dozen new houses. Moonlight shone brokenly through the beams of the unfinished homes. Peter and Nina had the place to themselves. That was a good thing, because even with the suppressor on, her M9 was fucking loud.
Nina was a dead shot, taking out all ten of the cans she had set up on a stack of pallets in a matter of seconds.
“Damn, that felt good,” she said, ejecting the magazine.
“It looked good,” Peter commended, taking his fingers out of his ears. “And terrifying. I’m glad you’re no longer pointing that thing at me.”
“For now. Don’t let me catch you breaking Nik’s heart,” she warned with an inscrutable smile.
Peter had a feeling she was only half-joking.
Nina strode over to the berm, setting out a new row of cans. She returned to where he was standing, tossing him her hearing protection. “You’re up, Bauer.”
Peter slid the ear muffs into place. Nina fed another magazine into the gun, started to hand it to Peter and then paused with a frown.
He lifted one of the muffs. “What?” he asked self- consciously.
“Has anyone actually bothered to teach you gun safety? Or did they just skip right to point and shoot on your first day of Gun Crime for Juvenile Delinquents 101?”
“Definitely the latter,” Peter admitted. Erik Bauer had not been a particularly nurturing teacher. It was a lot of figuring things out for himself. “I know what I’m doing though.”
Peter had shot a handgun on more than one occasion, but only in situations like this: low pressure and low stakes. He had never actually fired a gun at anyone, though he had brandished one once or twice to get a point across. It just wasn’t his weapon of choice. When they had been together, Stavros had carried a Glock for intimidation, and he had regularly busted Peter’s balls for preferring the hands-on approach of his crow bar. Peter had always found solace in not having to worry about accidentally shooting his dick off.
“Humor me then,” Nina said. “One: your gun is always loaded. Two: Never point at something you don’t want to fuck up. Three: Keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot. Four: Be sure of your target and what’s behind it.”
“Yes ma’am.” Peter snapped a smart salute at her. “I feel safer already.”
Nina handed the M9 to Peter. “Let’s see what you can do, hotshot.”
Peter fixed his ear muffs and leveled the weapon. It took him a bit longer to line up his shots than Nina, but he managed to hit a respectable eight cans square on and a ninth with a graze. The last bullet went high and wide, striking the berm with a puff of dust.
“You empty?” Nina asked.
Peter had been counting the rounds. “Yeah, that’s ten,” he said, lowering the weapon and reengaging the safety.
She smacked him on the back of the head.
“What the shit, Nina?”
“You’re never empty. Rule one: your gun is always loaded.” She grinned at him. “Also, next time try squeezing the trigger smoothly instead of jerking it back. You’ll pull the muzzle less.”
She was right about the squeezing. Over the course of the next hour, Peter quickly and consistently shot ten out of ten from about twenty-five yards, and he and Nina had burned through all of the recycling.
“Well, you’re not hopeless,” she said.
Peter helped her gather what remained of the cans back into the bin. “Please, you’re embarrassing me with your glowing praise.”
“What, you want me to lie to you?” She tucked the Beretta back into the gun safe. “You at least got marginally better.”
“Thanks.”
“And we’ll get in some more practice before I move out. I think it’s good protection to have a gun around the house, but Nik won’t touch the damn things after Helena.”
Peter paused in retrieving the casings. “What do you mean, before you move out?” He’d come to accept Nina as a permanent fixture in Nik’s home, much like the ugly puke green tub in the en suite.
“Teddy’s almost a year and a half. He needs his own room.” Nina turned self-conscious. “If I’m ever going to start dating again, I need my own room.”
“Get it, girl.” Peter said, deadpan.
Nina snorted with laughter. “Please never say that to me again.”
They began to make their way back to the cul-de-sac. Even at night, the blacktop radiated warmth, LA’s current heatwave showing no signs of letting up anytime soon. A thin bead of sweat ran down the length of Peter’s spine.
“Not to pry, but how are you set up?” he asked.
“I’m not about to go out with one of your shady buddies,” she said. “I’ll take my chances with Tinder, thanks.”
Peter pulled a face. “I meant how are you set up for a down payment on a house? We could probably float you something from the shop’s profits if you need it.”
“You know, you can be shockingly decent sometimes.”
“I mean it, Nina; you’ve got to cut it out. All this flattery is going to go to my head.”
“Thank you, really, but I’m fine moneywise. Markos took out a huge life insurance policy when he found out I was pregnant. I told him he was crazy.” Nina kicked a rock down the street as they walked. “Joke’s on me, I guess.”
“Sorry,” Peter said, unsure of how to respond.
“It’s fine. I’m just tired of third-wheeling your and Nik’s relationship.” She rolled her eyes. “And it’s only going to get worse once you live there.”
“What?” Peter almost dropped the recycling bin.
“Shit, pretend I didn’t say that.” Nina wrinkled her nose. “Nik’s going to ask you to move in. Act surprised.”
Peter didn’t have to act. Sure, he stayed over almost every night of the week, but his and Nik’s living arrangements had remained distinctly separate. In theory, at least, that meant their lives were unentangled, and that it would be easy to walk away if things went south. Even Peter hadn’t fooled himself into believing that after nine months, it wouldn’t be messy. Peter hated that he was always thinking in exit strategies, but it wasn’t something he could exactly help. He’d never known good things to have much permanence.
Nina punched the code into the garage, ducking under the rising door. She paused at the entrance to the house. “Thanks Bauer,” she said a little stiffly, “this was fun.”
“Yeah.” Peter nodded, his mind working in overdrive as he followed her inside. “Thanks.”
In the early morning light, Peter could see all of Helena’s womanly touches in sharp relief. They had slowly faded into the background as he had gotten used to them: the knick-knacks dotting every available surface, the over- abundance of pillows and ottomans and soft throws, the perfectly hung gallery wall of Nik and Helena’s family photos in the front foyer. Panic tightened his throat.
Peter cracked the door of the bedroom quietly. In his absence, Nikos had spread-eagled on top of the bright floral duvet. He had stopped snoring. His face was peaceful; his breathing was deep and even. It was in clear contrast to Peter’s, which had taken on a shallow, anxious quality since his conversation with Nina.
Peter crawled into bed, lifting the dead weight of Nikos’ arm off his pillow. Nik stirred.
He rolled over to give Peter more room, smiling sleepily. “Good morning, handsome,” he said, kissing Peter gently on the forehead.
“Morning,” Peter returned, his voice constricted.
Nikos ran his thumb down the length of Peter’s jawline. “I am sorry, was I snoring again?”
“Yeah.” Peter raked his hair back with his fingers. “Don’t worry, it’s okay.”
Nik inspected Peter closely. “Did you sleep at all? You look very tired.”
“Ah, flattery. So, did you just never want to have sex again or...?”
“Peter.”
“It’s fine.” He tried hard not to roll his eyes. “I’ll catch a few hours before work, boss.”
Nik pulled him into his chest. “You cannot survive on naps.”
He could hear Nik’s heartbeat, steady and untroubled, and Peter felt a thread of annoyance pull tight within himself.
“I’m set in my ways. It’s too late to change me. Don’t try,” he said, more testily than he intended. From a frame on the dresser, Helena’s picture beamed beatifically at him.
“I suppose.” Nikos sighed. “I just worry about you; I love you.”
There it was again, the L word, explosive and undefused. It didn’t do anything to improve Peter’s mood. Nik had first dropped this particular grenade in Peter’s lap two months ago. Nik had a bottle of wine with dinner and they’d gone back to the garage. It had been a perfect June night, mild with a light breeze, and they’d had the bay doors open. The radio had been pounding out the ending of Twist and Shout. It was after-hours, just him and Nik and the Camaro, when Nik had fucking ruined everything.
Nik was bent over the hood, topping up the washer fluid. Without warning, he launched into the casual argument they’d been having the night before. “Peter, look around you. You are here working on this beautiful vehicle, in this beautiful garage we own, on this beautiful California evening, next to, speaking frankly, a beautiful specimen of a man. And you are going to spit in the face of all of this beauty by telling me that George Harrison is your favorite Beatle?”
“He had the best solo career,” Peter defended, loosening the valve stem cap to fill the tire.
“This is outrageous.” Nik shook his head at Peter, but he was grinning. “If you do not change your answer to Lennon or McCartney in the next five seconds, you are dead to me.”
Peter looked over at him innocently. “Ringo Starr.”
“Fuck you,” Nik said good-naturedly. “Now you are just being deliberately contrary.”
“Come on, Nik, do you really expect anything else from me at this point?”
Nik laughed—a perfect warm sound that Peter would do anything to make happen for the rest of his life—and went back to work.
Elvin Bishop came on the radio next, crooning Fooled Around and Fell in Love. The organ rose to fill the space and on its heels the piano and the slide guitar. The effect was dreamy and full and nostalgic. Peter was just messing around. Nik’s back was to him, his arm up to coil the washer fluid hose into place. Peter snagged Nik’s left hand out of the air, using Nik’s confusion to spin him around and under his arm in a caricature of a slow dance. Peter pressed a kiss against Nik’s gently parted mouth, reveling in his surprise.
Peter was going to go back to the tire after that, but Nik held him there. He locked his fingers through Peter’s, his right hand sliding to the small of Peter’s back. He glided Peter around in a tender circle on the concrete floor, unhurried and self-assured. Nik was actually a pretty good dancer once Peter let him take the lead. And anyone could have seen them from the street, but Nik didn’t seem to give a shit. Peter relaxed into it, a little breathless from the way Nikos was looking at him. He swayed his hips into Nik’s, moving in a slow figure eight in time with the song.
Peter shouldn’t have been surprised that Nik was good at this but he couldn’t help but be taken in by the wild romanticism, especially when Nik dipped him effortlessly on the guitar solo. He was graceful and strong and so fucking steadfast, everything that Peter had ever wanted. Nik’s face went suddenly soft and sentimental. Peter knew what was coming before Nik even said it. In spite of everything Peter felt right now, he silently willed him not to.
Nik did anyway. “You know that I love you, right, Peter?” He said it in a very Nik way: straightforward, matter-of-fact, no frills.
Peter had suspected it for a while now, but he still wished that Nik hadn’t said it out loud. Peter sighed. He liked Nik, he really fucking liked him. Hell, if Peter was being completely honest with himself, he probably loved Nik. But he wasn’t ready to say it to him yet.
Those three words put you all in; they made you weak and exposed and liable to get hurt. And Nik could fucking hurt him in a heartbeat already if he wanted to. Love...love could annihilate him. Peter hated how much he found himself craving Nik’s approval, his affection, his company. Peter couldn’t afford to give Nik the kind of power over him that came with knowing that Peter loved him too. It wasn’t a trust thing, it was a self-preservation thing.
Nik looked surprisingly at ease with Peter’s silence. “It is okay, you do not have to say it back. I just wanted you to know.”
“Thanks,” Peter had said lamely, pulling away too quickly as the song faded out.
Eight weeks later and he still hadn’t said the words to Nik yet. Peter felt guiltier each time Nik brought it up.
Nik nuzzled against Peter in bed, wrapping his arm around his shoulders and holding him there. “Why do you smell like fireworks?”
“Gun powder,” Peter corrected, knowing it was going to push Nik away and not caring. Hell, he was doing it deliberately. He felt trapped here, by those words, by Nik’s arms, by this house, by the raw need he felt for Nik, and by Helena’s presence between them. “Nina and I got in some early morning target practice.”
Against him, Peter felt Nikos’ body stiffen at the provocation, but he didn’t say anything. Usually he called Peter out on some of his shittier, more hurtful impulses, but Nik had been acting weird for the past few weeks. It probably had something to do with the fact that every time he told Peter he loved him, Peter just let it fucking hang there in the air. Peter’s stomach twisted.
“You should stay home today, perhaps,” Nikos said quietly, pulling Peter toward him more tightly. “You can sleep as long as you need.”
Peter wasn’t sure he wanted to spend the entire day trapped in this mausoleum. “Nik, we’ve got the whole morning booked up at the garage, not to mention walk-ins.”
“I do not mind being busy; it will be nice to have the distraction,” he said. He stroked his hand across Peter’s chest idly as he talked. “Then when I come home tonight, we can do something fun, just the two of us. I will take you out. Maybe to Trikyklo for tapas?”
Nikos liked to go to Northridge’s one decent Mediterranean restaurant when they served their regular menu, but Peter knew Nik found their tapas night fussy and pretentious and, most egregiously in his mind, not very filling. Peter quite liked tapas, but he had also found out from one of the hostesses on their fourth visit there that it had been one of Nik and Helena’s regular date spots. As a peace offering, it was kind of a mixed bag.
“I can’t,” Peter lied, “I’m meeting Liv for dinner in the city.” Peter knew a trap when he saw one. Nik had always been a bit of a hopeless romantic. A cozy booth under the stars was just the opportunity he would use to ask Peter to move in. As for Peter, that was just one more conversation he wasn’t fucking ready for. It felt like Nik was rushing everything sometimes.
“Oh,” Nik said, looking more crestfallen than Peter thought the situation warranted. “I thought...I was hoping we would spend tonight together.”
“I can’t cancel on her now.” Peter extracted himself from Nik’s arms and rolled away from him, closing his eyes. “You know how her schedule is.” To be honest, he had no idea if Olivia would be able to squeeze him in on such short notice. Their visits had grown further and further apart over the last few months as Liv got busier. In Erik Bauer’s absence, Olivia had been fighting to keep a hold of every inch of their father’s former territory from the other families.
“Of course. It will be good for you to see your sister.” It was impossible to ignore the disappointment in Nik’s voice.
Peter tried and failed to clamp down on his guilt. “Yeah. It will.”
If Peter had his way, he would continue to bottle up every uncomfortable emotion he had and store it away, careful and unexamined, until he eventually died.
On Liv’s insistence and dime, Peter had attended a short stint in rehab when he was nineteen. Without a doubt, what he had hated the most—besides the absolute hell that was withdrawal—were the fucking group sessions. It was like a dick-measuring competition for tragedy, and everybody lost. Peter had decided pretty quickly that opening up about his issues just wasn’t for him.
Peter had kept his principals on that subject right up until he’d met Nik. Then it had all gone to shit with Nik’s kind words, soft eyes and goddamn gentle understanding. Nikos had the pesky habit of noticing when Peter was troubled about something and insisting they talk about it. And Nik had to know something was wrong. Peter curled himself tighter, feigning a yawn, bracing himself for the next question.
Instead, Peter felt the shift of Nikos rising up off the mattress. He heard the soft pad of his bare feet across the hardwood to the en suite bathroom, the splash of urine against the toilet bowl, and, a moment later, the rush of the showerhead.
Peter opened his eyes, confused and a little hurt, although he wouldn’t have been able to say why. He got out of bed and began to get dressed for the day. Sleep suddenly felt miles away.