Trashed: An Eastside Brewery Novel

by Mia Hopkins

  “Eddie,” she says. “Please. Make me come.”

  “I will. When I’m ready.”

  “Oh, fuck. Please.” She lets go of the dashboard and starts to play with her tits. I wish I could see her, her shirt tucked up under her chin, her pretty hands pinching those hard brown nipples. My balls twitch, threatening to blow. I throw my head back, close my eyes, and wrestle my orgasm down. It paces back and forth inside me like an animal in a cage.

  I brace my feet on the floor and push my shoulder blades into the car seat. I grab her hips in my hands and pin her in place. I thrust hard, my dick high and deep. She makes a surprised little sound halfway between a gasp and a sigh. I begin to fuck her like this, from below.

  “Play with yourself,” I growl. “Come all over me.”

  I can feel her fingers as she rubs herself. Her pussy is blazing hot. I speed up my thrusts. The friction builds even more heat. We’re going to melt the condom. We’re going to fuck right through it.

  That’s when I feel it—a ripple of muscle inside her, deep and quick. She freezes.

  “Eddie,” she whispers. “Oh God. Oh, fuck.”

  The orgasm whips through her. When she arches her back, she pushes her sweet ass against me and crushes my dick in her cunt. I feel the contractions, sharp and powerful, and the extreme pleasure I feel is balanced out with pride—I gave this to her. I’m making her come like this.

  When she’s finished, she slides off.

  Shaking, I move her body until she’s sitting on the passenger seat and I’m facing her. Dazed on sex, she pulls off her pajama pants completely and braces her feet on the dashboard. She puts her legs on either side of me and spreads them apart, nice and wide. In the dark, I can smell her pussy, wild and sweet. My dick points straight up, aching to be back inside her.

  Now I can see her beautiful face. I kiss her neck, tasting the sweat on her skin. I suck on her nipples and squeeze her breasts in my big hands. When I lean forward and kiss her lips, I pin her arms to the seat, and move my hips until the head of my dick rests in the dip of her hot, swollen cunt.

  Our kisses are hungry. Her little tongue in my mouth drives me wild. I break the kiss and grip her arms tighter.

  “Yes, like that,” she moans. “Be rough.”

  I rest my forehead against hers, take a deep breath, and thrust into her as hard as I can. She howls and for a moment I’m terrified I’ve hurt her. She’s tight. I’m big. I should be more careful.

  I’m about to apologize when she whispers in my ear, “Perfect.”

  For a moment, the word swirls around in my brain. Months have passed since we slept together. I know now I’m not crazy. My mind didn’t play tricks on me. Being locked up didn’t warp my sense of pleasure, and my memory is good, not bad.

  I was right.

  That morning with Carmen was the best sex I’d ever had.

  Until tonight.

  Heat licks up my arms and legs and gathers at the center of my body. I’m so hard, I ache. Struggling for air, I pull out halfway and thrust again. Pleasure blazes in every cell in my body.

  “Trouble,” she whispers.

  “Say my name.” I kiss her once more. “My real name.”

  “Eddie.”

  I thrust again—five times. Ten times. A dozen. I let go of her arms and brace myself above her. I place one hand lightly on her neck and stroke her throat with my thumb. I kiss her as gently as I can. But below the belt, I’m fucking her like a machine, stretching her sweet pussy to its limit around me.

  She slides a hand between us and strums at her clit. I dip my head, suck one of her nipples into my mouth, and twirl the tip of my tongue against it.

  Her second orgasm grabs her so suddenly, she screams. The sound pulls me over the edge. For a moment, I can’t breathe. I release her nipple and shut my eyes tight.

  When it hits me at last, every muscle in my body locks up. Neck, back, shoulders, legs. It drowns me. I fight back and fuck her through my climax, pulling the last drops of pleasure from both of our bodies until there is nothing left.

  Through it all, Carmen strokes my arms and chest. Her hands are cool against my hot skin. I collapse on top of her, and she embraces me, running her fingertips up and down my back.

  When I can breathe again, I kiss her temple.

  “Come home with me,” I whisper. My voice is broken. “Please. Just come home with me.”

  She looks into my eyes. Darkness in the darkness.

  “Okay.”

  On the floor of Rafa’s living room, I spoon Carmen close. She’s back in her pajamas. I’m dressed in boxers, even though I don’t want to be. We’re cuddling between two thick blankets. Her soft, sweet ass nestles against my dick and before long, I’m hard again. I’m feeling warm and happy and to be honest, pretty proud of my dick.

  Carmen says something.

  “What, baby girl?” I say.

  “I said tomorrow at the meeting with my parents, Sal and Vanessa are going to present their business plan and ask to rent the bakery. But I’ve been wondering…”

  “Yeah?”

  “Vanessa has a daughter and a full-time job. Sal won’t be able to be at the taproom all the time—he’s working and going to school. It’s going to be hard for them.”

  I yawn. “Yeah, I was wondering about that too.”

  “A lot of taprooms in LA are only open on weekends. But even then, lots needs to get done during the week. At first, construction. Meetings with inspectors. Setting up. Receiving orders. And deliveries—those still need to happen.”

  “I can help them with the other stuff, but I don’t have a driver’s license.”

  “Yes, but I do.”

  “What are you saying?” My voice slurs. I’m warm and high, here with her in my arms.

  “I could help you guys out.”

  This surprises me. “What about finding another restaurant job? I thought that’s what you wanted.”

  “I still want that. But I can help you guys out until I get hired somewhere else.”

  We’re hooking up. It’s good. We’re getting along. But something doesn’t add up to me. “Why? Why do you want to get involved in this?”

  She strokes my arms where they’re locked around her. “I can be of use. I have experience with the day-to-day requirements of operating a business.”

  “You do,” I say. “Between you and Vanessa, you have the experience and the knowledge to make this work.” I’m quiet for a second. I’m not a businessman, but I know numbers. “It’ll be a long time before Eastside Beer can sustain itself. You have to know that at the very best, they’d be able to pay you minimum wage.”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  “So really, why do you want to do this?”

  She sighs softly. “It’s going to sound cheesy.”

  “Just tell me.”

  “Don’t laugh.”

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  “Part of me wants to work in this community again.”

  “That’s not cheesy. Do you miss working at the bakery?”

  “Maybe. A little. I don’t know.” She pauses, her brain working. “You remember what our kitchen at Giacomo’s looked like, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Three-quarters of Chef Moretti’s kitchen staff is Mexican or Mexican-American. I’ve worked in kitchens where the entire staff in the back of the house was brown and the entire front of the house was white. All the restaurant owners I’ve worked for have been white. But brown hands made that food. Brown hands built those businesses, built that value.” She strokes my hand where it rests on her tummy. “I hated working in the bakery when I was young because I wanted an escape. An adventure. What I didn’t appreciate at the time was that my family owned and operated the bakery for generations. Now I’ve been out in the world, I can see what an accomplishment that was.”

  “So why not just take over the bakery?”

  She shakes her head. “It wouldn’t be sustainable. The neighborhood is changing. The newcomers wo
n’t have the context to appreciate La Golondrina the way the old-school families did. The new residents—they’ll want gluten-free cupcakes, not bolillos.”

  “That’s a tragedy,” I add. “Bolillos are delicious. The more gluten the better.”

  “But you know what both the old-school families and the newcomers will appreciate? A brewery. Your brother’s brewery. A place to grab a beer and relax.”

  I’m slowly waking up to the things Carmen is telling me. “What keeps us from being just another hipster business? Just another sign of gentrification?” I ask. “Sal took me to the brewery in Santa Monica where he makes his beer. It was hipster central. Lots of money. Plus, old neighborhoods like Hollenbeck—they’ve always been suspicious of change. The residents will accuse us of being sellouts. Pinches vendidos.”

  “Maybe,” she says. “But I’m guessing most of them won’t. They know this is our neighborhood, Eddie. It always was.”

  I kiss the top of her head. She’s right. The Centeno family has operated La Golondrina for three generations. The Rosas family has been banging in Hollenbeck for three generations too.

  “You’re right.” I say. “This is our neighborhood.”

  “For what it’s worth, we’re royalty here,” she whispers.

  Carmen’s ponytail has come loose. I slide off the elastic and run my fingers through her cool, smooth hair. I’m awake now, and so is my body. She turns around to face me.

  “Royalty, huh?” I whisper.

  “Yes.”

  “Come here, mi reina.”

  One kiss turns to two, five, ten. Soon my boxers are off. Her T-shirt disappears next. Now her pajama pants. Now her panties.

  Under the blanket, I feast on her body. Her nipples are sweet and tender between my lips. Between her legs, the intoxicating smell of her pussy fills my senses, and I lose myself in pleasing her. I lick up and down her swollen lips. I dip the tip of my tongue inside her to lap up her sweetness. When I’ve had my fill, I suck on her clit until she opens to me. I press a finger into her and she grips me, pulling me deep.

  She’s silent. I measure her pleasure by the speed of her breaths and the temperature of her skin against mine. When I lick her to the edge of her climax, she grips the blankets in her fists and arches her back off the floor. Quickly, I slide a second finger into her and fuck her in time with the strokes of my tongue. She comes for the third time tonight, her legs locked around my shoulders, her pussy soaking my face and beard.

  In that moment, she’s a queen, and I’m the king who serves her.

  Royalty—that’s what she called us.

  I roll another condom on.

  “I need you,” she whispers. She grabs me and puts me inside her. “Eddie, I need you.”

  Sixteen

  Carmen shakes me.

  “Hey. Wake up!”

  I open my eyes. I’m buck naked on the floor of Rafa’s trailer. The windows are open. Bright sunshine fills the living room. I blink and look around. Rafa’s nowhere to be seen. Carmen is dressed in her pajamas and she’s pulling on her sneakers like the trailer’s on fire.

  I reach for my phone to check the time. It’s dead—I forgot to plug it in last night. Next to a tangle of blankets and pillows, I spot three condom wrappers. Despite last night’s marathon, I’ve got serious morning wood, and it’s pointing straight at her.

  “What time is it?” I’m half-awake.

  “It’s noon.”

  “What?”

  “We’re late for the meeting. It started at eleven thirty. I was supposed to introduce Sal and Vanessa to my parents. Oh, Jesus. My mom’s gonna kill me.” She tosses my boxers at me. I catch them and slip them on over my aching hard-on. “We both forgot to set an alarm last night.”

  Last night. The memories rush back to me. In spite of her panic, she is beautiful in the bright sunlight. I can see her nipples through her T-shirt. No bra. I stand up and try to take Carmen in my arms, but Chef Centeno slaps me away.

  “Are you crazy?” she hollers. “We have to go now.”

  “Jesus! Okay, okay.”

  I take a piss behind the trailer—Rafa said not to do this, but I’m pressed for time. Quickly, I wash my hands and face and brush my teeth with water from the garden hose. I get dressed and hop in the car just as Carmen screeches off.

  On the road, Carmen freaks out even though I try to calm her down. I tell her my brother Sal is anal-retentive, so they probably arrived early and introduced themselves without her, no problem. I tell her not to worry, because Vanessa is a businessperson who knows exactly what she’s talking about. Her parents will recognize that. I tell her to relax because Sal and Vanessa probably brought a selection of beer with them. They’ll probably all be drunk by the time we arrive. The worst-case scenario I imagine is nothing like the one that’s playing out inside her head. Nothing I say seems to make a difference.

  “You don’t know my mom,” she says again and again.

  She and her parents live in a nice small stucco bungalow with a neat lawn and those tropical flowers that look like birds’ heads. We walk up the driveway, and she tries to comb her hair where it escapes from under the ball cap. She folds her arms over her chest—no bra under her T-shirt. She’s still wearing her flamingo pajama pants. We couldn’t find her panties in the living room—I think they’re under Rafa’s couch. Her lips are swollen. There’s a small hickey on her neck just under her ear.

  Anyone can see she’s been up to no good.

  And I’m the cat who’s dragging her in.

  With a sigh, I check out my reflection in the front window as she unlocks the door. My black eye looks worse today than yesterday. I take in the tattoos, shaggy beard, and messy hair. Carmen’s right to be nervous. Not only is she bringing home a gangster ex-con, I look the part.

  We enter the living room and Carmen closes the door behind us. Connected to the living room is the dining room. Papers are spread out on the table. Sitting there are my brother Sal and Vanessa, both of them looking clean and professional. Sal’s eyes meet mine. His face is serious but I know he’s laughing at me on the inside. I keep my expression frozen to keep from cracking up.

  Sal and Vanessa sit at the table with Carmen’s parents. I remember her father from the bakery. Slim was always a chubby guy—someone gave him that nickname when he was a kid, and it stuck.

  “Eduardo,” he says. “Hello. Long time no see.”

  When he stands up to shake my hand, I notice he’s using a metal cane. He’s dressed in khakis and a polo shirt. His hair is combed neatly. But something is wrong with his eyes—he looks past me, not at me, and I’m reminded that Carmen said after his beating he wasn’t the same man as he was before.

  Slim takes his seat again. I turn to Carmen’s mother, but she’s not paying any attention to me. She’s sitting straight as a crowbar in her chair. She’s tall and slender like Carmen, but her hair is slicked into a bun and her face is pulled back just as tight. She’s wearing a sleeveless navy-blue dress and pearl earrings. She’s staring at her daughter with murder in her eyes, taking in the wrinkled clothes and messy hair. Her jaw is squared and her bottom lip sticks out, like a boxer with a mouthguard.

  “There you are, Carmen.” Her voice is ice. “Your father and I have been waiting for you all morning.”

  I look at Carmen. She seems to shrink into herself. It’s strange to see her this way. I don’t like it.

  “Excuse me,” Carmen says to everyone at the table. “I’m sorry I’m late. I’ll join you in a minute.”

  She turns and walks into the hallway. Sal glances at me and tips his head slightly toward the empty chair next to him. I sit down.

  “Where were we?” Vanessa says. “I believe we were discussing the lease term?”

  As Vanessa organizes the notes in front of her, I notice Carmen’s mother has turned her attention on me. Anger—that was the emotion she showed Carmen. For me, she has nothing but disgust. When Vanessa and Slim start talking about the monthly rent, Carmen’s mom tips her h
ead back slightly and looks down her nose at my tattoos, my beard.

  I keep still. It’s obvious what she’s thinking—I’m the piece of shit who’s ruining her daughter’s life.

  A part of me wants to blurt out, She’s not a child—she’s a grown-ass woman. I smile to myself. Yeah, your daughter’s a grown-ass woman who gave it up to me three times last night.

  Carmen’s mom’s eyes flash as if she can read my mind too.

  “Excuse me,” she says suddenly.

  Vanessa and Slim look up as the woman stands up, walks down the hall, opens a bedroom door, and slams it behind her. I can hear the muffled voices of Carmen and her mother as they argue, their anger soaking through the plaster walls.

  Slim shakes his head and looks at us apologetically. “I am sorry about this. My wife—she has been on edge all morning. Forgive us.” He shuffles the papers. “I can see you have done all of your homework, Ms. Velasco. Can I keep these and look them over?” He gestures vaguely with his hand. “I need a little more time to understand everything. The old brain—it’s a little slower now.”

  “Of course.” Vanessa puts everything in a folder and hands it to Slim. “Take all the time you need. I’ve written my cell phone number on the back of my business card. It’s inside the folder. Call me if you have any questions.”

  As usual, Sal is quiet—when it comes to negotiations or business of any kind, he lets Vanessa take the wheel. It’s wise—she’s a smart cookie.

  The door to the bedroom opens and Carmen and her mother appear in the hallway. Carmen has combed her hair. She’s wearing a skirt, a sweater, and sandals. I’ve never seen her in clothes like this—she looks like her mother has dressed her. Her eyes are puffy, like she’s cried and wiped her tears quickly away.

  Vanessa glances at me and Sal and quickly zips up her briefcase. She stands up. Her voice is calm. “Mrs. Centeno, it was a pleasure to meet you. Thank you for sitting down with Sal and me to discuss this. I’ve left all of the paperwork with your husband so that you can both look everything over on your own.”