Trashed: An Eastside Brewery Novel

by Mia Hopkins

  “Why not now?”

  “Stop,” she snaps. “Just stop.”

  I’ve pushed her buttons. Time to back off a little. I stack up two more boxes as she continues to search through the cartons. “What are you looking for anyway?” I ask.

  She bends down to reach the boxes on the bottom shelf. “Celeriac.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  “It looks like celery with an ugly brown knob attached to it.”

  “You people eat the weirdest shit.” I get down on my knees to search the same shelf where she is. We push and pull more boxes but still, no celeriac.

  I’m closer to her now, and the fan masks what anyone might hear me say next.

  I take a deep breath and shoot my shot. “Go out with me,” I say.

  She says nothing.

  “Go out with me,” I say again. “On a date.” As if I had to add that.

  “I don’t sleep with coworkers. That’s a hard rule.”

  I feel so awkward right now, my skin hurts. “I didn’t ask you to sleep with me,” I say. “I asked you to go out with me.”

  Her eyebrows shoot up. “Why would you ask me to go out with you if not to sleep with me? Isn’t that why people go out with each other?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe people go out with each other because they enjoy each other’s company. Because the other person is pleasant. Because the other person is a good listener, which you obviously are not.”

  She smiles a little bit to herself. I like the looks of that.

  “Can I ask you a question?” she says.

  “I told you, you can ask me anything.”

  “Why me?” She looks at me sideways. “You’re Trouble Rosas. Everyone knows you don’t have problems finding women.”

  My old reputation as a player is hard to shake. Most of the time it’s useful. But how do I tell her that in six months there’s been no one, not a single woman, since her?

  I chicken out and tell a joke instead. “I’m tired of nice, normal ones. Thought I’d try you for a little while.”

  She makes a face at me and draws her hand back to slap my shoulder. I catch it and she laughs. I pull her close and the laugh disappears.

  We’re facing each other, kneeling on the floor of a giant refrigerator while thirty of our coworkers are rushing around outside.

  My heart is punching its way out of my chest.

  “Carmen,” I whisper. I touch her face.

  “Eddie—”

  “You know I want you.” My body temperature rises a thousand degrees. I stroke her cheek and run my fingertips down the side of her throat where her pulse is going haywire. “I want to kiss you, Carmen. I want it so much I think I’m going to die.”

  Her eyes are wide. “We can’t do this here.”

  I’m caught in her spell. There is no here or there to me in this moment. Only her.

  “I want to kiss you,” I say again.

  “That’s a…” She swallows hard. “That's a bad idea.”

  “Some bad ideas are good.” I can see her control slipping. I run my thumb over her bottom lip as lightly as a whisper. “I want you. You, Carmen.”

  That’s when she jumps on me.

  The pen behind my ear rolls under a shelf. Before I know it, I’m flat on my back and she’s kissing me so hard I can’t get a breath. Her mouth is hot and sweet. It’s terrifying, seeing Chef Centeno lose control so completely like this.

  But also—it’s hot as fuck.

  Carmen slides her cold hands under my T-shirt. When her fingers find the ridges of my abs, she moans and kisses me harder. Her wicked tongue goes deep, and somewhere in the haze, my brain wonders why she swings so hard between control and wildness.

  There is no middle ground with her.

  We are tucked between two shelves of cardboard boxes filled with produce. She’s straddling me, unbuttoning her jacket with furious movements, like the jacket is choking her at the collar and she can’t wait to get it off. When it’s open, she gives a grunt of satisfaction, leans down and runs her hands up and down my chest.

  Still, she won’t look me in the eye.

  She’s breathing hard. I put my hands on her shoulders and push her gently away.

  “Carmen,” I say, warning her. “You know I want you. Do you really want me? Here? Like this?”

  “Motherfucker,” she whispers. “I want you all the time. Ever since you stepped into this kitchen.”

  “Could’ve fooled me,” I say, because she did.

  She leans down and smashes her lips against mine. I shut my eyes and slip back down into the sweet darkness with her at last. I wrap my arms around her and crush her against me. She arches her back and presses her hips down, aligning my hard dick with the heat between her legs.

  I groan against her lips and pull away just enough to whisper, “Who are you?”

  Underneath her jacket she’s wearing a worn-out V-neck T-shirt. She’s not wearing a bra. She leans back and, staring at my lips, lifts up her T-shirt, showing me her breasts.

  Goddamn.

  She’s so beautiful.

  I reach forward and cup her in my hands. So perfect.

  She covers me with kisses—my face, my neck, my mouth. She grips my arms and squeezes me with her thighs. When she grinds against me, I hold still. I’m hard as hell. My dick strains in my pants, aching for her.

  Eyes wild, she reaches down, unbuckles my belt and unzips my fly.

  I lean back. My head thumps against the cold corrugated metal that lines the floor of the walk-in. “Carmen,” I gasp. “Jesus.”

  She rubs my dick. “I remember this.”

  “Good,” I say with a nervous laugh. “’Cuz it remembers you.”

  Carefully, she reaches into my boxers and pulls out my hard-on. I hiss as the cold air hits my skin, but that sensation quickly disappears when Carmen leans down and slides me into her hot, slippery mouth.

  “I—you—ah.” It’s hard to form words when your fantasy woman seals her lips around your shaft and begins to milk your dick with the back of her throat. “I’m going to…just guess that you’ve been—ah, yes—thinking about that morning?”

  She is too preoccupied right now to answer.

  I thread my fingers through her hair and guide her head with my hands, slowing her rhythm. She draws a swirling, spiraling pattern with the tip of her tongue along the underside of my shaft. My body jerks forward. My ass flexes, lifting my thighs off the cold metal floor.

  She slips off my dick and works my shaft with her hand. “Does that feel good?” she whispers.

  “This is…irresponsible,” I say.

  “You’re lecturing me on irresponsibility?”

  “You have a point.” I take my dick out of her hand and put it back in her mouth. Smiling around me, she takes hold of my hips and slides deep.

  All of a sudden, we’re back in the hot bedroom of Rafa’s trailer, tearing into each other like vultures at the end of the world. Again, I wonder what kind of demons drove her to me that first time. What kind of demons are driving her to me today?

  I’ve been a knucklehead most of my life. Locked up in juvenile hall, in jail, in prison. I know how to slide into my head when I need to, if I need an escape. But there’s nothing in my imagination as good as being here with her, right now, losing ourselves like this.

  Her hair is completely loose now. I brush the hair back from her forehead and hold it in place away from her beautiful mouth. I am so close to coming, I’m shaking with the effort of holding back. I’m breathing like a maniac, almost hyperventilating. The cold dry air in the walk-in burns my lungs.

  “Yes,” I gasp.

  I’m drunk on her—completely trashed.

  She grips the base of my dick and goes as deep as her narrow throat can take me. It’s too much. My abs flex and my ears ring and my sense of control crumbles to dust.

  “I’m gonna come,” I say. “Carmen, I’m gonna come.”

  She moans and goes quicker, the universal signa
l for I’m okay with you coming in my mouth.

  Fuck.

  I pump my hips in time to her fist and mouth. I grip her hair gently and close my eyes. Jesus Christ, this is going to be a big one. Bigger because I wasn’t expecting it, and bigger because we could get caught at any time. The old thrill of being bad—it’s a rush I feel whenever I’m with her.

  “Just like that, baby girl.” I shut my eyes tight. I imagine my finger slowly squeezing a trigger. “Holy sh—”

  Air rushes through the room.

  Someone has opened the door of the walk-in.

  Carmen jumps back like a scared cat and lowers her shirt. I sit up and yank my shirt over my aching dick. We are crouched in the shadows of the cartons but there is no mistaking what we’ve been doing. I zip up as quickly as I can.

  Anybody in the kitchen staff would laugh this off. Rigoberto might hate me for a while, but what could he do to me? Dino would be furious, but if Carmen had my back, I don’t think he’d give me the boot. I can handle a reprimand—that’s nothing new. To be honest, all of this would be kind of hilarious if my balls didn’t hurt so much right now.

  I’m almost giggling when I look up at Carmen’s face. The laughter fades as soon as I notice her eyes are wide with shame. She’s pale and pasty, as if she’s going to be sick.

  I turn around.

  It takes me a second to recognize him. Gray hair. White chef’s jacket. He looks like Dino, but leaner and meaner.

  Standing in the doorway is Giacomo Moretti.

  Seven

  Boner runs out into the alley as I unchain my bike.

  “Service is about to start,” I tell him. “You better get your ass back in there.”

  “What is going on?” he says. “Chef Centeno is still in the office with the big boss. No one will tell me what’s happening.”

  I’m not going to narc on Carmen. “I have no idea what he’s telling her.”

  “But what did Dino tell you? He seemed upset when he came back inside.”

  “He gave me my paycheck and told me I was done here.” I wave my hand as if losing this job is no big deal, even though it is. “We had a disagreement. I was careless. He’s sending me home.”

  Boner looks panicked. “For good?”

  Even though I’m not feeling confident about my ability to find more work, I say, “Shit, I was looking for a job when I found this one, right?”

  “It’s not right, Eddie,” Boner says. He’s wearing his plastic apron. The wind whips it back and forth. “This is messed up. They can’t just fire you for disagreeing with them—no write-up, no warning. It’s not fair.”

  It’s perfectly fair considering what I was just doing, but I don’t mention that. Instead, I readjust my backpack. “How long has Chef Centeno been talking to Chef Moretti?” I ask. I hope she’s okay. She looked really shaken up.

  Boner nods. “More than thirty minutes. We don’t know who’s going to expedite tonight.”

  Carmen always stands at the front of the line, handing each dish off to the servers. Someone else will have to step up. Maybe even Chef Moretti will have to do some work in his own kitchen. Whatever the case, it’s no longer my problem.

  “You better get in there.” I tip my head toward the door. “They need you.”

  Boner adjusts his ball cap and rubs his face. He looks disappointed and angry on my behalf. “Listen, Eddie. You take care of yourself.”

  “All right, homes. You too.”

  We bump fists and do a half-hug. I haven’t known this dude long but something about the kitchen has helped us bond. Maybe that’s what happens in kitchens—people bond a little closer than they should.

  I let go and walk my bike out to the driveway. I wince a little—my balls ache like they’ve been kicked. Boner shuffles to the back door of the kitchen and disappears inside. When the door slams behind him, a feeling of frustration washes over me.

  I didn’t love this job, but I didn’t hate it. I liked my coworkers, and I made friends. I know I should take ownership of all my dumb decisions, but a part of me wishes I could get a pass on this one. When it comes to Carmen, my brain doesn’t work right.

  I don’t know what I’m going to do next for money. My savings have all gone toward finding my dad. I kick Rafa a few dollars for the bills. What little I have left won’t last long.

  I’m about to take off when Carmen drives out of the underground parking lot in her Toyota.

  I get off my bike and lean it against one of the Dumpsters. I walk up to her car and she lowers the window. She looks just as sickly as she did when we were caught, but now she also seems lost and tired. Her eyes have a faraway look.

  “Are you all right?” I ask.

  For a second I’m afraid she’ll be angry. Instead, she’s sad. Her shoulders hang loose like all the fight has been drained out of her. “I’m all right,” she says softly.

  “But what happened with Giacomo?” I ask. “Boner said you were in the office for a long time.”

  A loud beeping noise interrupts us. A trash truck enters the opposite side of the alley. It’s slowly heading our way.

  “We should get out of here,” I say. “Are you driving home?”

  She shakes her head. “I can’t go home just yet. I can’t face my parents like this.”

  “Then where?”

  “I don’t know.” She sighs. “I was just going to drive around for a while. Clear my head.”

  I look her over. Hollow eyes, a slouch. She looks emotionally wasted. I don’t want her to be alone right now.

  “Can I go with you?” I ask.

  Instead of answering, she stares at me. I blow out a breath. If she leaves now, I don’t know when I’ll see her again. Maybe never. I’m not ready to face that reality yet.

  That’s when she unlocks the passenger door.

  “Get in,” she says.

  In silence, we drive through downtown, through Chinatown, and up into the hills. We pass the fire academy, the police academy, and end up on a flat hill in Elysian Park overlooking the city.

  The lot is deserted. Carmen parks the car. I open the windows and let the cold breeze blow on my face. For a moment, I put my problems on pause, take a breath, and take it all in—downtown’s skyscrapers. The different neighborhoods that make up my city. The mountains to the east. The airport and the ocean to the west.

  Locked up, I missed this feeling—the wind on my skin, the whole world in my eyeballs. For five years, all I saw were the walls of my cell, the walls of the yard, the same faces, day in and day out. Playing cards. Watching TV. Listening to the phone ring, knowing the calls were never for me.

  And now here I am. Above the city—no, a part of the city, parked in a car with a very pretty but very sad girl.

  Man.

  This is all kinds of messed up.

  “I lost my job, Eddie,” Carmen says at last. “Chef Moretti fired me.”

  Her news punches me in the gut. “But the kitchen—it doesn’t run without you.”

  “It only seems that way.” She sighs. She taps the pink glass rosary hanging from her rearview mirror and it swings back and forth. “To be honest, it’s a good team. It existed just fine before me and it’ll exist just fine without me.”

  “Does the staff know?” I’m surprised they didn’t threaten to burn the restaurant to the ground unless she’s rehired.

  “No,” she says. “Giacomo told them I’m taking some personal time off. He’ll probably tell them tomorrow I’m not coming back.” Her face crumples at last. A tear slips from the corner of her eye, races down her jaw, and drips off the point of her chin. She’s not wearing her chef’s jacket. She’s wearing black pants, clogs, and her white T-shirt. Her hair is in a loose ponytail, still messy from my fingers. Without the jacket and bun, she no longer looks like the imposing Chef Centeno. She looks like Carmen, only lost and heartbroken.

  “Oh, man,” she says. “I fucked up.”

  I reach over the center console and awkwardly take her in my arms. To my s
urprise, for the second time, she holds on to me and sobs against my shirt. The sound is tiny, almost inaudible, and I grip her tighter. I don’t know what to say.

  She pulls back and sniffles. There are teardrops in her long, dark eyelashes. “I’ve always been a good worker,” she says. “That’s something my family taught me in the bakery—work is life. Always put all of your heart into your work, and never do anything half-assed. I’ve never lost a job before.”

  “Lucky for you, I’ve lost lots of jobs.” I wipe away one of her tears with my thumb. “I can give you tips on how to cope.”

  She doesn’t smile. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I wasn’t thinking.”

  As I stroke her hair, I think about how some people seem to keep their heads on all the time. I’ve never been one of those people. Every now and then my emotions take control, and I let them. Lots of problems in my life come from this one thing.

  “This is my fault,” I say. “I ruined everything for you.”

  “No, Eddie. This is one hundred percent my fault.” She looks out at the city. “My choices. My actions. I was your superior, and what I did was so, so wrong.” She groans. “I was the perfect employee. I did everything right. Until today. I’ve never lost control like that. Ever.”

  I can’t stand to see her hurting. “To be fair, I am extremely sexy. I mean, I don’t blame you.”

  Carmen shakes her head and smiles sadly.

  I want her to laugh a little, but I also know how much this job meant to her. Maybe one day she will find this situation funny. But not today.

  “What did you do before you started working at Giacomo’s?” I ask.

  “I went to cooking school,” she says. “Three years. Napa Valley.”

  “That sounds fancy.”

  “Oh, it was fancy, all right.” She sighs. “I have the fancy student debt to prove it.”

  “And before that?”

  “Panadería La Golondrina. Of course.”

  Her family’s bakery. La Golondrina—it means “swallow,” the bird. I remember the old glass cases filled with pastries. I remember the smell of baking bread filling the neighborhood, making my empty stomach growl. “Can’t you go back?” I ask.