Kat Cassidy

Where love, lies, and the law collide…

In Los Angeles–glitzy, grimy, a place where passions burn as bright as the Hollywood lights–two men find themselves snared in a web of secrets, danger, betrayal and a love that refuses to be extinguished. 

Galen Luskey, once a rising legal star, has been reduced to scraping by with criminal clientele after his career took a nosedive two years ago. Witness to a murder that threatens to shatter the fragile stability he’s rebuilt, he has no choice but to turn to the one man he swore he’d never allow back into his life.

Lev Kavazanjian, a hardened LAPD detective nursing wounds of his own, reluctantly gets tangled up with Galen in the aftermath of the crime. Unhealed scars resurface and long-buried desires reignite, sparking a fierce attraction neither man can deny.

But with secrets in the shadows and enemies closing in, Galen and Lev must confront their pasts if they have any hope of a future together. Set in Kat Cassidy’s LA universe, “LA Vice” is a heart-pounding enemies-to-lovers tale of redemption, second chances, and the power of love to conquer all.  

Can be enjoyed as a standalone. Rated M for mature. 
CW: murder, depression, alcohol use.

Read an excerpt…

Chapter One
Luskey

Galen Luskey had once been the best trial lawyer at one of the top firms in Los Angeles. His colleagues had called him ‘The Magician’ because he could make juries’ doubts disappear, transform even the thinnest of evidence into a compelling narrative, and enchant everyone in the courtroom in the process. 

Unfortunately for him, Galen’s remarkable ability for persuasion doesn’t seem to extend to his own dick. His dick does what it wants, and it drags the rest of him along with it.

With only his libido to blame, Galen begins the midnight drive from his peaceful home in the suburbs into the pulsing heart of LA for his third encounter with Chris Birch in as many weeks. The arguments against it are sound. Chris is a client, so it’s a professional nightmare. Chris also happens to be married to the woman whose business pays a substantial chunk of Galen’s income. It doesn’t improve matters that the woman in question is Adara Giannopoulos, one of LA's most notorious queenpins, feared for her cold, calculating demeanor and murderous streak. Allegedly, of course—Galen’s job is to make sure none of those accusations stick.

Courting both danger and Adara’s husband, Galen recognizes a cartoonishly self-destructive impulse in himself. He has not yet been able to do anything practical with that self-knowledge. Pushing his aging Mercedes through the final turn, he enters the familiar cul-de-sac without slowing, as if he believes that by going fast enough, he can outpace the looming stormcloud that has shadowed him for the past month.

He’s expected. The enforcer stationed at the end of the driveway—Sgouros, by name, if memory serves—waves him through the gate without looking up from his paperback. The imposing house, a testament to the Giannopoulos family’s immense wealth, comes into view as Galen winds his way up the long driveway. Adara compensates him handsomely, but it’s clear that criminal law is not competing with crime in the financial department.

Galen parks next to the low boxwood hedge, contemplating whether to bring his briefcase for an air of legitimacy. Ostensibly, Chris has invited him here to look over the fourth draft of the contract for LA Vice, an upcoming TV show he’d been cast as the lead in. In the end, Galen decides against it. The briefcase is new and expensive, a replacement for the tattered one he’d been carrying since his departure from New York. He’s keen on keeping it dry and there’s a pool. Besides, he and Chris are not fooling anyone, least of all themselves. Galen shoulders only his messenger bag containing swim trunks and a towel, circumventing the house to reach the massive poured-concrete deck.

He spots Chris at the far end of the inground pool, his back turned to Galen as he peers into the water’s depths. Galen’s cock throbs a little; the sight of Chris always manages to stir something within him. “Those mojitos better be as good as you promised,” Galen calls out, smiling, as he eyes the ice-laden pitcher on the bar. “The 405 was packed.”

Chris doesn’t grace him with a greeting, or even turn to acknowledge Galen at all. Galen knows he can sometimes lose himself in his thoughts, but this level of preoccupation is out of character for Chris. He usually turns on the minimum level of charm required to make Galen feel less used.

Shrugging it off, Galen ducks into the cabana to change. The open bottle of tanning oil’s scent surrounds him, evoking a world of cheap vacations and relaxation. He’s sure that Chris, honey-blond, bronze and beautiful, must be a frequent tanner. An east coast transplant, Galen himself tends to burn under the relentless California sun. He swears sometimes that he’s the palest man in Los Angeles.

Shimmying into his trunks, Galen steps onto the concrete, scanning for Chris. The deck is empty, and he’s confused until he spots Chris’ form submerged in the deep end. The underwater lights are glowing through his billowing white swim trunks.

Galen pours himself a drink, savoring the minty aroma as he perches a lime on the rim of the glass. He’s distracted before he can take a sip, spotting the edge of the TV contract that has been squirreled away on top of the bar fridge. He starts reading, but the words slide off his brain. Something is wrong. Chris hasn’t resurfaced.

Unease tugs at Galen’s stomach. He moves closer, squinting into the shifting pool shadows. Galen’s heartbeat accelerates, the moment stretching for too long. Chris isn’t swimming; he’s hovering near the bottom, his limbs floating limply with the current of the filter pump. Tendrils of something dark snake around him.

A chilling realization seizes Galen. “Fuck.” He drops his glass, shattering it, before diving in without a second thought. The water stings his eyes as he reaches Chris, grappling with the weight of his motionless form. 

He kicks fiercely, muscles burning, dragging Chris towards the surface. The edge of the pool is agonizingly close, but Chris is dead weight. Galen’s strength falters, but he refuses to give up.

Finally, after an excruciating effort, they reach the shallow end. Gasping for air, Galen lays Chris on the deck, adrenaline pumping through his veins. Chris’ slack face is a startling contrast to the vibrant man Galen knows. The skin is pale. The eyes roll up, blank and white. He places his trembling hands on Chris’ chest, desperately attempting CPR. He presses the heels of his palms down in rhythmic compressions, but there’s an eerie stillness in the air, as if the world has frozen save for Galen’s frantic efforts. All he can hear is his own ragged breathing.

Something thick starts oozing up between Galen’s fingers—blood—a visceral confirmation that this is terrifyingly real. Galen recoils, his horror intensifying as he takes in the gunshot wounds pocking Chris’ torso. Bile rises in his throat, his stomach churns violently. He coughs uncontrollably, trying to hold down vomit. 

Spent, knowing he’s too late, Galen starts again. Compressions, breaths—each repetition an exercise in futility. Chris is gone.

Breathing heavily, Galen stands finally, staring at the lifeless body. He needs to leave, to detach himself from this. No one can know he was here. His chest tight, he cleans the pool’s edge, disposing of the fragments of glass and the contract in the water. He won’t be tied to this. Galen can’t afford to rebuild his life from scratch, not again.

Bag slung across his shoulder, Galen stumbles up the lawn towards his car. It’s been broken into, his glove box open and registration papers strewn over the seat, his briefcase gone. He gives a wracking sob at the violation.The shattered passenger window and ransacked interior serve as brutal reminders of his own vulnerability. Chris’ ashen face looms in his mind, guilt flooding Galen once more for leaving him there on the cold concrete.

He’ll report what happened here tonight, but he can’t be caught up in it. The decision is reckless, but it’s made. As he speeds away, Galen watches the house recede in the rearview mirror, eyes stinging with chlorine and unshed tears. He can’t save Chris, but he’ll save himself.

Chapter Two
Kavazanjian

The crime scene buzzes with activity as Detectives Levon Kavazanjian and Callie Gibbs pull up in their unmarked car. They step out into the glare of work lights. Lev surveys the scene with intent, his mind churning, piecing together the details. 

Crime lab techs scurry around, documenting evidence and examining the area. Lev’s sharp eye catches a glint of broken glass in the boxwoods lining the driveway. He nudges Callie and points it out, his tone playful. “Check it out, it looks like we stumbled on someone’s shattered Hollywood dreams.”

Callie arches an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Really reaching for that one, Lev.”

Lev shrugs. “Hey, it’s two in the morning, I got pulled out of bed for this, and you denied me a caffeine stop on the way. I’m operating on fumes here. I get credit for trying.”

She stifles a laugh. “When we get back, I’ll grab you one of Monroe’s ‘Detective of the Day’ stickers that he hands out when he visits elementary schools. You’ve earned it.”

“I’m more of a temporary tattoo man myself.” Lev doesn’t try to hide the warmth in his voice. He and Callie have only been partners for a few months, but there’s an ease to their relationship that Lev values.

He trusts Callie in a way he can’t say about most of the guys in the Gang and Narcotics Division. There’s something genuine about her, something that tells him she’s not in it for the ego or the power games that can sometimes dominate the department.

He’s still on a losing streak, but somehow Callie’s presence makes it easier to bear. They’re both outsiders in their own way—Lev, the only queer member of the squad, and Callie, the only black woman—bonded in their mutual outcast status. Despite their differences, they’re a team that works well together.

As they duck under the crime scene tape, a seasoned homicide detective with a tired expression approaches them. “Kavazanjian, Gibbs. Thanks for coming.”

Lev recognizes him, extending a hand. “Ollingbrooke. Fill us in.”

The detective gestures away from the house and down the sloping lawn, a detached elegance that now holds the chilling remnants of a murder. Another swarm of techs buzz around a tasteful pool. “Chris Birch, actor turned victim. Three shots to the chest, center mass. Whoever did this knew what they were doing.”

Lev’s interest is piqued. The intersection of their narcotics investigation and a murder case is compelling, and he exchanges a quick glance with Callie. “Execution-style?”

“Seems like it,” Ollingbrooke confirms. “No signs of a struggle. It has a stench of professionalism.”

Callie chimes in, her tone contemplative. “And you’re leaning to the obvious answer.”

“You bet I am. The poor bastard was married to someone who has no qualms about getting her hands dirty.”

In cases like this, the spouse was often the prime suspect, especially when she was a local crime lord, but this doesn’t seem like her style. Would Adara Giannopoulos leave a crime scene for the LAPD to discover? The woman knew how to dispose of a body when she needed to. “You’ve got the motive figured out then?” Lev asks.

Ollingbrooke nods. It’s hard to tell if he’s overly agreeable or just mentally checked out, already dreaming of retirement and a house in the Florida keys. “We know Chris Birch was cheating on her with multiple partners. Crime of passion, maybe? The woman is boocoo bad news.”

Lev had been studying Adara’s movements for years. She was brutal, yes, and sometimes impulsive, but always calculating. “If it was her, no way she pulled the trigger herself. I bet she’s got an airtight alibi.”

Callie chews thoughtfully on the end of her pen. “We can’t discount that it’s the work of another crime family, either. We know Adara’s been expanding her territory in the drug trade, making plenty of enemies lately.”

Ollingbrooke takes a moment, stroking his chin. “Not a bad theory.” He’s clearly impressed by her insight, and Lev can’t help but feel a surge of pride in Callie. There’s something else there with the pride, something a little uglier he doesn’t want to look at too closely.

He covets the confidence. He’s reminded of the days when he was like her, the department’s wunderkind, a hotshot detective who seemed to have all the answers. That was a long time ago.

The Giannopoulos case—the same one he had fought tooth and nail to be assigned to—has become a never-ending nightmare, a source of frustration that’s plagued him day and night over the two years he has been working on it. It doesn’t help that every time he manages to catch one of Adara’s men in his net, Galen Luskey aids them in wriggling free on some legal technicality. He forces his attention back to Ollingbrooke. He doesn’t want to think about Galen and his petty grudges right now.

“In the meantime,” Ollingbrooke continues, “we’ve got the security guard on-duty in interrogation. You two can have a run at him after we’re done. Maybe he’s willing to spill the beans on his boss.” He gives a winsome smile that suggests he thinks it’s unlikely.

Interdepartmental rivalry is alive and well in the LAPD; it’s a rare kindness Ollingbrooke is extending here, as is calling them out tonight to his scene. Ollingbrooke has been around for a long time, though, and Lev knows the Kavazanjian name still carries some weight among the old guard.

“Anything else noteworthy? Any witnesses?”

Ollingbrooke shrugs. “We’ve started canvassing the neighborhood, but so far, nothing. Imagine that.”

A wry smile plays on Lev’s lips. “Yeah, I’d be careful not to see anything either if I lived next to Adara Giannopoulos.”

“So, if not the neighbors, what about the initial call?” Callie interjects. “Who reported the murder? I doubt it was Adara’s security guard; contacting the police wouldn’t be his first move.”

Ollingbrooke consults his notepad. “Came in as an anonymous tip from a payphone. Dispatch pulled the record. Adult male, the officer who took the call said his voice sounded, and I quote, ‘handsome.’ I’ll get them to forward you the details.” Ollingbrooke grins, putting voice to the unspoken implication. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a witness, now we just need to find him.”