Trashed: An Eastside Brewery Novel

by Mia Hopkins

  Before I can embarrass myself by thanking her, Carmen gets in her car, starts it up, and drives up the ramp. Dino follows her, giving me the side-eye as he passes. When they’re gone, I take the elevator back up to street level and ride my bike home with a goofy smile on my face.

  Five

  I lean my bike against the avocado tree. After I wash my face and brush my teeth, I sneak into the trailer as quietly as I can. Rafa will be up in a couple hours to work in the garden. His door is shut tight and I can hear him snoring softly in his bed.

  I spread out two San Marcos blankets on the floor and crawl between them. I put one of the sofa cushions under my head, plug in my phone, and set an alarm for noon. Then I lie there shivering, turning the phone in my hand again and again.

  I moved out of Sal’s apartment last month. It’s for the best. He’s a neat freak, first of all. I’m not a pig, and I love my brother, but I couldn’t deal with seeing him stress out about towels hanging crooked on the bar or cereal bowls in the sink. Also, he nags me, just like when we were kids. Most of all, he wants me to stop obsessing over our father. After I lost my last job, Sal and I had a big argument. That’s when I left for good.

  It’s so dark in this trailer. Only the weakest moonlight makes it through the blinds.

  I want to sleep, but nervous energy hums in my muscles. I put the phone down. I shut my eyes tight and try to stay as still as possible. Maybe sheer boredom will put me to sleep. But ten, twenty minutes pass and I’m still as awake as I was when I lay down.

  My mind wanders to the only place it wants to go these days.

  Silky, smooth, and cold.

  That’s how Carmen’s hair felt in my fist.

  I want to see her hair loose again, straight and heavy as a waterfall. I imagine the way she looked sitting in the chair, her face tipped toward me. Her lips were parted. Her dark eyes were even darker, dilated, like a junkie’s. I could look straight down her throat and see her cleavage. I wanted to drop down into the shadow between those beautiful breasts.

  Carmen’s bra was purple tonight. I close my eyes and imagine it. Light purple.

  Suddenly the living room goes from freezing to sweltering hot. With an annoyed grunt, I take off my T-shirt and roll onto my back. I throw off the blanket, and the air seems to lick my skin, teasing me.

  I’m annoyed until I remember.

  It’s been one week since I jacked off.

  Right. Okay.

  I glance at Rafa’s door to make sure it’s still closed. It is, and his light is still off.

  With a sigh, I lean back and close my eyes again.

  Fuck.

  Fine.

  Let’s do this.

  I slide the waistband of my sweatpants down over my thighs. I’m hard as hell, on edge since I was alone in the office with Carmen. I take my shaft in my hand. Just that contact alone is enough to make my dick stand straight up. My balls are cold, already pulled up tight. I rub them with my other hand and take a deep breath.

  I tighten my grip on my dick. My first strokes are slow, lazy, and light on the downstroke. I curve my fingers around the hot skin and pull, a little tighter each time.

  I throw my forearm over my eyes and breathe deep. The only other sound I can hear is the sound of skin sliding on skin.

  Now I’m back in that office, my hands on her warm, silky neck.

  Chef Centeno is in control from the moment she wakes up to the moment she closes her eyes at night. But here, and now, Carmen is going to hand that control to me.

  “Stand up and take off your jacket,” I say.

  Eyes on me, she stands up, slides the heavy cotton jacket off her shoulders and drops it on the chair.

  I stare, taking in her smooth brown skin. “Take off your shoes and pants.”

  She does it. I watch her wiggle out of her shapeless work uniform, revealing her pretty hips and long, smooth thighs. Breathing hard, she waits for my next instructions, standing barefoot on the tile floor in her tank top and panties.

  “Now take off everything else,” I say with a smile.

  I watch as she slowly peels off her shirt. She takes off her bra, and her skin breaks out in goosebumps. Her nipples are dark. She slides her panties down and steps out of them. I see that neat triangle of dark hair. Beneath it, shadowed between her thighs, the soft sweetness of her pussy. My eyes drink in every detail.

  She’s hugging herself lightly. She looks vulnerable. I’ll comfort her, but not yet. Right now, I want to watch her drop all of her defenses—her poker face and the other, harder mask behind it.

  “Carmen,” I say. “How do you feel?”

  “Nervous,” she says.

  “Why?”

  “I’ve never felt this way about anyone.”

  “Felt how?”

  She blinks. “I don’t know. Like I have no control.”

  I’m quiet for a long time. I let her stand there, naked and vulnerable. Her nipples harden, begging for my lips. “Tell me the truth, baby girl,” I say at last. “Why did you let me make love to you that morning?”

  My mind races to form the words that will come out of her beautiful mouth. I grip my dick harder. Precome forms at the tip.

  “Because I wanted you,” she says. “I saw you in the garden, and I knew I had to be with you.”

  “Why?”

  “I knew you would take care of me.” She bites her lip. “I wanted to give it to you.”

  “Give me what?” I ask.

  “My body,” she whispers.

  My voice comes out as a growl. “What parts? Show me.”

  She smiles shyly at me.

  “Show me,” I say again. “Tell me every part you want to give me.”

  She points to her bottom lip and strums the soft flesh with her fingertip. “This,” she whispers.

  “What’s that?”

  “My mouth.” She slides her hands down to her breasts and cups them in her slender hands. She scissors her fingers, lightly pinching her nipples between them like chopsticks. “These,” she says.

  “What are those?”

  “My tits.”

  I watch as she slides her hands down her stomach. With the tips of her middle fingers, she rubs the soft flesh on either side of her clit. “This.”

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “My pussy,” she whispers.

  My mouth waters. I speed up my strokes. “Show me.”

  She steps back and sits on the edge of the desk. She opens her legs and I watch, mesmerized, as she runs her fingertips along the sides of her pussy, but not over it. The tender skin gives in to her fingers. She’s lean and tight everywhere else, but here, between her legs, she’s soft and pillowy.

  My dick grows harder and thicker in my hand. I’m struggling to breathe.

  “I said, show me,” I say.

  Eyes on me, she puts those fingertips on either side of her pussy and spreads it open. The dark brown lips part, revealing a tiny, glistening opening, pink as a rosebud. Her clit is stiff. She drips down on the desk—just a tiny thread of clear liquid, but enough to make my balls twitch.

  I step forward. I don’t break eye contact with her, and her face softens as she submits to me, mesmerized by what I’m telling her to do.

  “Good girl,” I whisper. “Now open your mouth.”

  When she does, I slide my index and middle fingers between her lips. She sucks on them. I feel the rigid roof of her mouth and the soft, textured muscle of her tongue. She closes her eyes and sucks on my fingers like I dream she would suck on my cock, like I’m ice cream, like I’m candy, like I’m water and she’s been wandering in the desert her entire life.

  When my fingers are dripping, I pull them from her mouth, reach down, and slide them gently but firmly into her sweet, tiny cunt.

  She grips me and groans.

  “You like that?” I whisper. Slowly, I slide my fingers back and forth, dragging out the sensation.

  “Yes.”

  She is wet and feverish. As I feel her stretchi
ng around me, I stroke her aching clit with the tip of my thumb, tiny circles. She is still holding herself open for me—good girl. Carmen follows directions as good as Chef Centeno gives them.

  “Why do you want me to have this?” I ask her.

  “Because you’ll take care of it.” Her eyes are watering with pleasure. “You’ll take care of me.”

  “Damn straight I will.”

  “That feels so good.”

  “Does it, baby girl?”

  “It feels perfect.”

  I curve my fingers and tap her G-spot. She grips me even harder. “So, am I taking care of you?”

  “You’re going to make me come.”

  My fist strains around my cock.

  She whispers, “Oh God.”

  I reach down and grip my balls. My right hand works my shaft furiously. I open my eyes.

  Instead of Carmen, I see darkness shot through with faint moonlight. I smell dirt and fresh herbs. A cold draft of air dances across my slick chest. My lungs are burning. I’m on the edge.

  I hear her whisper in my ear. “Let’s come together, Eddie.”

  My whole body flexes hard, bracing for the impact of my orgasm. When it hits, sensation floods my brain. Hot come shoots out of me, landing all over my abs, my chest, even my neck. It’s a big one. All I can do is lie on the floor, paralyzed, every muscle contracting with pleasure.

  In a daze, I wonder if Carmen ever thinks of me this way, if she ever touches herself and comes with my name on her lips.

  When my orgasm subsides at last, I’m visited by that familiar mixture of relief and shame I always feel after I jack off.

  The only sexual contact I have in my life right now is with my right hand. Five years behind bars, you know, you and your hand, you get close. You look out for each other. You develop mutual respect.

  Even my right hand knows this is not healthy.

  “Obsessed,” I whisper to myself. “You’re obsessed with her, you fucking creeper.”

  I find my T-shirt and clean myself up. I throw the shirt in a trash bag that holds the rest of my dirty clothes. I pull up my pants and readjust the blankets. Eventually, I fall asleep to the sound of my own breathing, alone. Like always.

  Sal and I work out at the YMCA near the park. He sometimes lifts at the health center at his fancy college, but because he feels sorry for me, he’s agreed to meet me here three times a week. The weight room is a little run-down, but iron is iron. A hundred pounds is a hundred pounds whether you’re in a fancy gym or a shitty one. All you have to do is lift it.

  My brother has taught me to keep a notebook of my workouts. Like dorks, we both walk around the gym with pens behind our ears. I write out my weights, reps, and sets before putting my notebook down and taking my place to spot Sal at the bench.

  Under the fluorescent lights, I see the dark shadows under his eyes. He’s exhausted. Work and school and girlfriend and family have not left him a lot of time to recover. Add to that his growing business with Eastside Beer, and I know he’s got a fair amount of stress.

  “What’s bothering you?” I ask when we set down the bar.

  “Nothing’s really bothering me. Just something I’ve been trying to figure out,” he says. “We make these deliveries, right? All of them are downtown. Every day Vanessa’s getting emails and phone calls from bars out in Hollywood, in Silver Lake, even the San Fernando Valley. They want Eastside Beer, but we can’t get it to them.”

  “Why not?”

  “We’re making the beer all the way in Santa Monica. I can’t afford to pay for delivery. With work and school, Vanessa and I can’t drive it out there ourselves. On the other hand, I don’t want to lose any of that business. People are starting to want our product.”

  “You sound surprised. You brew good beer, homes.”

  “I’m surprised by the growth,” he says. “We haven’t done any marketing at all.”

  An old veterano asks if we’re finished with the bench. I tell him yes and wipe it off for him. He gives me a fist bump.

  “You the Rosas brothers?” he asks.

  “Trouble,” I say. “That’s Sal.”

  He gives us a little gangster nod. “I knew your dad, back in the day. My condolences.”

  And just like that, the ghost of Dreamer Rosas appears again.

  “Thank you,” Sal says.

  We walk to the other side of the gym, leaving the old man behind. We get some kettlebell swings and lunges in. I don’t want to talk about Dreamer and neither does Sal.

  “What are you going to do about the beer?” I ask instead.

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m in this program for the next twenty-two months. That’s a long time. Until then, I can keep making the beer at Bay City Brews. But you know what would be cool?”

  “What?”

  “If I could somehow find the capital to open a taproom. Have people come to us instead of the other way around.”

  “A taproom? Like a bar?”

  “Sort of. We’d sell our beer, no one else’s. Maybe food. Beer and wine licenses are not cheap—that would be a big chunk of change, and there’s no guarantee the city would grant us a new one in this ’hood. I’m not sure how it all works yet. But that would be tight, don’t you think? An Eastside spot for Eastside beer?”

  My brain cranks to life. I used to live for the hustle. “How much would something like that cost to start up?”

  Sal snorts. “Why, you have a couple hundred thousand hanging around?”

  “Hey,” I say. “I’m poor but I’m sexy. No one can put a price on that.”

  A couple of neighborhood chismosas walk by, two grandmothers on their way to water aerobics. To prove my point I give them a little smile and a wink. “Ladies, buenas tardes.”

  “Looking good, mi’jo,” says the one in the flowery bathing cap. She returns my wink. “Que chulada de hombre.”

  “So when is Trouble coming my way?” asks the other one.

  Both of them bust up laughing.

  Six

  At the top of my shift three days later, I lock my bike up and walk into the kitchen. The staff is standing around a workbench looking at a newspaper. Boner waves me over before I take off my hoodie.

  “Eddie, come take a look at this.”

  A food critic has reviewed Giacomo’s. He’s written about Carmen’s cooking as being both “refreshing and technically masterful at the same time.” I reread the last line to myself. “Chef Centeno has been sous chef at Giacomo’s for nearly a year and a half and a driving force behind the kitchen since her arrival three years ago. With cooking this playfully original, Centeno seems destined to step out of the shadow of a good chef to become a great one.”

  As I get ready for work, I think about the sign in front of the restaurant, lit up with floodlights. I think about the heavy cookbooks on the shelf by the hostess stand and the framed articles on the walls.

  Chef Moretti has left his kitchen in Carmen’s hands but has never given her public credit for it. When he returns—if he returns—I don’t think this article will make him happy. It definitely doesn’t make him look good.

  Carmen arrives in the kitchen for the nightly meeting and brushes off any praise the cooks and servers try to give her for the article. As usual, she runs through the specials like today is any other day.

  In the quiet period before service starts, I help Rigoberto by loading some produce into the walk-in. I open the heavy door and close it behind me. I rotate and stack the boxes neatly, making sure to mark each one so the cooks use the ingredients in the order they were received.

  The fan inside the large walk-in is extra loud so I almost don’t hear the door open and close behind me. I feel a breeze and turn around, expecting Rigoberto to give me more directions.

  Instead, Carmen is standing there in her white chef’s jacket. She looks as surprised to see me as I am to see her.

  “Hey.” I cap my marker and tuck it behind my ear. “Congratulations on the review. That was really cool.”
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  She gives me a half smile. “Got lucky, that’s all.”

  “‘Got lucky’?” I say. “That food critic worships you. Even I know a review like that is a big deal.”

  She shrugs. “I suppose. We try to cook at that level every day, whether a food critic is in the house or not.”

  “Or whether Chef Moretti is in the house?” I ask. “I’ve been here two weeks and I still haven’t seen him.”

  “He doesn’t have to be here.” She paws through a carton of Tuscan kale. The leaves are almost black.

  “He doesn’t?”

  “No. His name’s on the restaurant. He helped train me. He conceived of this place and found investors to help him build it. The recipes are his.”

  “But you run the kitchen that cooks them.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” she says. “His name brings people through the door night after night. Do you know how many restaurants start up in this city and fail? That open and close within just a few months? Giacomo Moretti might not be in the kitchen every day, but it’s his brand that keeps us in business every night.”

  “But why doesn’t he give you credit for the work you do? You take care of everything while he’s away. I asked Rigoberto. Chef Moretti is in the restaurant maybe five days out of every thirty. He cooks at Giacomo’s, what? Two or three times a year?”

  She’s annoyed. Her voice sharpens. “What do you want me to say? That it’s fair? No, it isn’t fair, but that’s how professional kitchens work. Giacomo paid his dues. Right now I’m paying mine.”

  “Don’t you want your own restaurant?”

  With a sigh, she says, “Of course I want to run a kitchen of my own.”

  Now we’re getting somewhere. “What would you make?”

  She ignores my question. “One day, when the time is right, I’ll move on. Until then, here I am. It’s a good job. They pay me decent money to be here. So I show up.”

  “Every day?”

  “Every day.”

  “But when will you know the time is right to move on?”

  She shrugs. “I’ll know.”