Peter Bauer is a career car thief with more skeletons in his closet than four-figure suits. Nikos Petrakis is a mechanic who's found himself on the wrong side of the law because of a secret of his own. Together, they'll have to navigate L.A.'s seedy underbelly in the sweet with heat world of Hot Wire. (M/M romance, rated Mature, contains themes of crime, suspense, family drama, hurt/comfort, dark humor, addiction, and abuse.)
Night Moves has been nominated for the Goodreads M/M Romance Members’ Choice Awards Best of 2018 for both Best Debut Book and Best Main Character.
Read an excerpt...
Hotwire: Night Moves
Prologue
The Cobra sputtered then came alive. It was an elegant boost, Peter had to give himself that. The secure garage, the fancy alarm system— it had all amounted to nothing up against his skilled hands. He’d been in and out in under three minutes; he hadn’t even woken the dozing Doberman pinscher in the side yard. Peter slipped the ‘65 Shelby Cobra convertible into neutral and rolled silently down the slope of the driveway.
He had been doing this almost his entire life. He never got tired of liberating classic cars from trust fund yuppies. This particular yuppie had had a seat at his father’s brokerage firm: Daniels, Daniels, and Marconi. Peter knew he had to hit him the moment he saw Daniels Junior’s picture on the firm’s website with a shit eating grin and a shark skin suit. At least Peter’s father had taught him a trade that was useful. Peter had to admit that Erik Bauer hadn’t provided the most stable or wholesome childhood, but there was something to be said about being the only kid in the seventh grade that was able to bump a Schlage deadbolt in thirty seconds flat.
Peter had picked up enough speed now. He shifted the Cobra into second gear and popped the clutch. The engine came coughing to life. Daniels Jr. hadn’t even had the decency to keep this magnificent machine properly tuned. In Peter’s opinion, this was the truly criminal act.
It wasn’t prudent or professional, but Peter didn’t give a shit, he took the long way home. He flipped on the radio, scrolling through the dial until he hit on some oldies station where The Mamas & The Papas were telling him about the merits of California Dreamin’. The huge beachfront mansions were lit up like kids’ birthday cakes in a dark room. After a while, they gave way to the cool darkness of the coastline as he made his way back into the city.
Stealing was Peter’s first fix, and it got him higher than any other drug he’d ever tried since—he loved the rush, the getaway, the come down. The steering wheel thrummed beneath his fingertips, the balmy ocean air filling his lungs to bursting as he picked up speed.
He could’ve stayed in this moment forever.
Chapter One
“Peter, you really do have a talent for making terrible decisions,” Erik said, gesturing blandly to the Cobra. “Care to tell me exactly what you were thinking when you picked up this monstrosity.”
In the harsh fluorescent lighting of the chop shop, the pristinely restored Monza Red factory paint looked bloody and obscene.
It was early and Peter was alone with his father. It would be at least half an hour until the night crew began trickling in to set about their business of stripping stolen mid-range cars for parts—his father’s business, a modest empire built on catalytic converters and coercion with the odd act of petty violence thrown in for good measure.
Peter was unofficially the lead hand of the street team, a job which mostly consisted of strong-arming half a dozen other lowlifes into sniping three to five-year-old Camrys, Altimas, and Rams in bulk, and the occasional new model Porsche or Maserati when a valet was exceptionally careless. They didn’t do classic cars—they were too heavily insured, too limited, too easy to track, and too hard to move.
He may have planned tonight’s job like a career criminal, but it was an amateur move on Peter’s part, fueled more by a righteous fury over a shit-bird like Daniels Jr. owning a car like this than any real savvy.
Several weeks ago, Peter had spotted him and, more importantly, his work of American muscle car perfection at a trendy restaurant in the downtown core. He’d watched as the guy tossed his keys at the pretty blonde valet. Literally. The girl had been helping another customer and Daniels Jr. had thrown his key ring down the front of her shirt and then patted it for good measure.
She’d stood there for a moment, mouth open, fists clenched, and then Daniels Jr. had leaned in close and whispered something to her that had reduced her to tears. And that had been it; Peter had made a vow to himself right then to steal the car. Not from the valet—she’d been through enough for an evening—but from Daniels Jr., certainly, and soon.
Tonight, after two weeks of meticulous preparation, he’d made that happen. The moment he’d pulled it into the garage he’d realized with a wave of nausea how impulsive he’d just been. Erik was right to be angry at him.
Erik was always angry. And Erik was always right.
Peter sighed, rearranging his face into something he hoped could pass as more indifferent than the embarrassment he felt. Suddenly he was eleven again and his father was furious at him for stealing a chocolate bar from the corner store. Not mad he did it, of course, but mad that Peter had gotten caught.
“How could I not?” Peter asked, trying to keep his voice steady. He couldn’t explain about the valet, his father would just call him soft. “Doors wide open, keys in it and running. Some boomer and his mistress probably fucking down by the water before his Viagra wore off.”
“There’s no need to be crude, Peter,” his father said as he crouched to pick up a tire iron someone had left on the shop floor.
In one vicious movement, Erik drove the tool into the Cobra’s headlight as he stood, sending a shower of glass spraying out in a thousand razor shards. Peter flinched like a child and the scar across his chest suddenly twinged. This time his father’s rage was directed at the car but he knew from experience the target could change in an instant.
Erik turned his back to him, setting the tire iron calmly on the workbench. “Clean up your mess.”
Peter exhaled through his teeth, willing his heart to slow down. He watched his father go, waiting until Erik ascended the stairs, until the light went on in the little office, until his own breath stopped hitching in his chest.
He knelt only then, focussing on cleaning up the remains of the headlight. One by one, he carefully transferred the largest of the jagged pieces of glass off the concrete floor into his palm and then finally into the garbage can he had moved over from the corner of the shop. It was methodical and it was mindless and he didn’t hear the footsteps coming up behind him until they were almost upon him. Erik, back for a second round, he assumed. Peter pivoted on his heels with a sharp intake of breath, clutching the shard of glass in his hand in some kind of instinctual defense mechanism. It dug into the meat of his palm.
But the figure just let out a low whistle. He wasn’t even looking at Peter; he was looking past him at the Cobra. It was Nikos Petrakis, part of the night crew. He always showed up early, one of the holdovers from being legitimate for so many years. The guy even packed a lunch every day for chrissakes. Peter let the glass drop.
Unlike the other chop shop guys in their crew, Nikos had once been a legit mechanic. He’d even owned a little garage in the valley with his brother-in-law—K&P Auto Repair, a lovingly maintained two-bay shit-box that had been hemorrhaging money. The brother-in-law had gotten into some trouble with the Toles family, Peter didn’t know exactly what, but two people got shot on Erik Bauer’s turf and then his father had had to step in to smooth things over. The peace was restored and Nikos was working for Erik by the end of the week. Frying pan to fucking fire, in Peter’s opinion.
“Just look at her,” Nikos said in his musical Greek accent, his voice reverent. He ran his hands across the door, gracefully leaning his body over the top of it to pop the hood. “The Ford 427 engine in her and everything. A little run down maybe, but nothing you could not fix.” He circled the car slowly, fingertips grazing the surface the whole time, skipping briefly only to avoid the shattered headlight, his dark eyes bright with pure delight. “She is beautiful.”
It was everything Peter felt when he looked at that car.
“She’s a liability, is what she is,” Peter said, more venomous than he intended, hearing his father creep into his voice. “I’m going to need new plates on it, and a new bulb in that lamp at least. I’ve got to move it tonight. Somewhere.” He pressed his palm against his forehead; he could feel the self-inflicted headache coming on. His hand was tacky as he pulled it away. Peter registered for the first time that he’d cut his hand on the glass. He could feel the wet streak of blood he’d left on his forehead, trickling into his eyebrow.
Nikos closed the space between them almost instantly, his eyes intent on Peter’s, really looking at him for the first time since he entered the shop. “Oh shit, are you okay? You are bleeding.”
Nikos didn’t wait for an answer. He was suddenly, uncomfortably, much too close; pushing his hands through Peter’s hair, looking for the cut. It must have been a European thing, this complete and utter disregard for Peter’s personal space.
Normally, the sight of blood didn’t bother him—God knew Peter had shed enough of his own and other’s in his father’s name—but there was something about this, the hot, wet gush in his palm, the warmth of Nikos’ body pressed so close to him, the smell of gasoline and oil and brake fluid and Nikos’ aftershave that was making him lightheaded. Peter stumbled backward a step on shaky legs, thrusting his bloody hand out like some bizarre shield to keep Nikos at a literal arm’s length.
“It’s fine,” Peter said. “I just cut myself on some glass, is all.” He scraped his hair away from his forehead, a nervous involuntary habit that left a fresh smear of blood across his face. He must have looked like a lunatic.
One corner of Nikos’ mouth turned down, his brows rising to meet as he looked at Peter.
Peter tried for a breezy laugh, a sound which came out somewhere between a broken accordion and a dying goat. “Really. It’s just my hand. It’s fine, I’m fine.” A spurt of blood fountained out onto the concrete beneath him, undermining his point.
Nikos didn’t crowd him again. He seemed to realize his initial mistake and took to approaching Peter as one might move toward a particularly standoffish stray dog.
“You, come,” Nikos said, not touching him but herding him toward the utility sink. “Wash. You do not want to get tetanus. One time a guy at my shop stepped on a nail. Boom. Dead in a week.”
Peter cocked an eyebrow at him. “You’re fucking with me.”
“Okay. It was not at my shop, I read about it.” Nikos said, the corners of his mouth inclining upwards very slightly. He shrugged, retrieving a broom and a dustpan from beside the sink. “Still, very unpleasant.” He reached over and turned on the tap. “Wash.”
Peter did as he was told, flinching slightly as the water sluiced down his arm. “I’m maybe eighty percent sure this isn’t how you get tetanus,” he called over his shoulder. “And probably ninety-nine percent sure this isn’t how you prevent it.”
Nikos was squatting over the remains of the broken headlight, carefully sweeping them into the dustpan. “Oh, I am very sorry,” he said good-naturedly, “I forgot that you were actually a doctor who just steals cars for fun.”
Nikos deposited the glass into the garbage can, moving to rummage through one of the workbench drawers.
“No, it’s my fault,” Peter said, turning back to shut off the tap and shaking water from his hand. Pink flecks spattered the white sink. “I forgot they taught preventative medicine alongside car maintenance now.”
Nikos was upon him again like a damn cat, suddenly right behind Peter again without him realizing, reaching out to seize Peter’s wrist in his rough hand. Peter startled slightly but didn’t pull away this time. Nikos guided Peter down into a sitting position on the workbench, keeping a hold of his hand and ripping open the bag of fresh cotton shop rags with his teeth. He secured one of the cloths snugly over the gash in Peter’s palm.
“Fixing cars, fixing people—it is all very similar, I think. You listen to the symptoms, you diagnose the problem.” Nikos grinned at him, taking a second cloth and dabbing at the blood on Peter's forehead. “You patch them where they leak.”
“Should I be worried then?” Peter shot back, prodding at the edges of the makeshift bandage to avoid Nikos’ concentrated gaze on his face. “You don’t fix cars anymore, you take them apart.”
Nikos’ smile dimmed for a fraction of a second, a cloud passing over the sun. It was still enough to make Peter feel like a grade A asshole.
“Ah, well, maybe again someday,” Nikos said. His thumb drew absent circles on Peter’s wrist. “Do not forget you are talking to the former greatest mechanic in both the Northridge and surrounding neighborhoods. Five stars on Yelp.”
“Oh, well in that case, I’m certain I’m getting the best medical advice.”
The Bruce brothers came booming in through the side door. The brothers were always referred to in the plural—and to be honest Peter wasn’t exactly sure if their surname was Bruce or if just one of their given names' was Bruce and the others were his siblings. They were chop shop crew as well, and the three of them seemed to be locked in an eternal competition to see who could be the most obnoxious.
Peter shuddered involuntarily.
Nikos let Peter’s hand drop, winking at him. “As your mechanic, I would advise you to go get a tetanus shot in the morning.”
“I'll keep that in mind,” Peter said briskly. The interruption had broken the spell. He should have said something else, should have thanked Nikos more sincerely for the first aid and the glass clean up and the overall human decency that wasn’t generally extended Peter’s way, but he didn’t. He was out of practice. Decency might be Nikos’ thing, but it sure as hell wasn’t Peter’s.
The Bruces seemed to have developed a sort of hive mind, their voices indistinguishable from one another and their conversations non-sequitur. They buzzed. “That’s fucked, man…make us some coffee, dick for brains... and so I said to her she would be prettier if she smiled, which she would…where did I leave that tire iron?... I would kill for a coffee…and she told me to fuck off! Can you believe that?...whoa, check out that busted-ass old car… what a bitch…I know, I was just paying her a compliment. Like fuck me, right?”
Nikos seemed to be used to it. He stood, hailing the largest of the Bruces—Bruce Prime. “There is coffee on,” he said. He was smiling but there was a bit of an edge to it, “And if any of you touch that convertible, it will be the last car you do. That job is mine.”
The Bruces didn’t seem to take offence. They caught Nikos up in their swarm as they made their way into the kitchenette to drink coffee and continue their abhorrent existence. Nikos gave Peter a brief final wave over his shoulder. Peter returned it but the door was already closing behind him