by Mia Hopkins
Essential, believe that.
Awareness of the Eastside Brewery brand is growing. We feel the growing pains whenever vendors ask for kegs and cases we don’t have. If we continue like this, Vanessa says Sal will be able to start making beer right here in the old bakery soon. We can’t wait.
The sandwich idea was so popular and so lucrative on opening weekend that Vanessa invited Carmen to stay on full time. And Carmen said yes.
That’s right. My girlfriend and I work together again.
Oh.
I forgot to say the best part.
Carmen’s my girlfriend.
She still lives at home with her parents—her student loans will be paid off in a year and a half. I still live with Rafa. I’m working on saving my own money for the first time. When Carmen says the word, I’ll be ready to take the leap and find a place for us to live.
I can’t speak for her, but I swear, the more time I spend with this woman, the more I want her.
I didn’t know it could be this way, just like in those so-called trashy romance novels I used to read when I was locked up. I didn’t believe I’d ever find it.
Love, I mean.
Sometimes after closing, Carmen and I lock the doors, clear the dishes, and sit at one of the tables in the dining room. We’ll share a simple meal, maybe tacos, maybe one of the experimental tortas she’s developing for the menu. We’ll chat and laugh about the day.
At times like these, the peace I’ve been searching for my whole life finally settles over me. My heart and mind go quiet whenever I’m with her.
Tonight, by candlelight, I ask her, “Carmen, tell me the truth. Does this—all this—make you happy? Is this what you were looking for?”
She looks around the room, so different from the bakery where she grew up. “Yes. It’s home.” She nods to herself. “It’s home, but better.” She turns to me. “Tesoro.”
Treasure, she calls me. Trouble to trash to treasure—love has done this.
“Sí, mi amor,” I say.
“Now you tell me the truth. Do you ever miss the life?”
“No,” I say. “That—that wasn’t real.”
She smiles. “So what is?”
“This life.” I kiss her hand. “You, mi reina. You are my life now.”
Note to Readers
In 2014 and 2015, I volunteered at a gang intervention and reentry program. During my time there, I spent many hours conducting in-person interviews with trainees. Their stories of trauma and transformation inspired the characters in Trashed.
Acknowledgments
To Jennifer Haymore, thank you for helping me breathe new life into Carmen and Eddie’s story. Working with you is such a pleasure.
To Deidre Knight, for your unfailing kindness and faith in my writing.
To Lindsey Vargas, Oscar Ramirez, Zenobia Neil, Dorota Skrzypek, Jezz de Silva, and Michelle Barboza-Ramirez. Thank you all for sharing your time and insight. Next round’s on me.
To Joseph Torres and family at Buena Vista. To Mark Alexzandr and Steve Boland at Holy Grounds. Thank you for your support and hospitality on an exceptionally rainy day in Los Angeles.
To Nickie Peña and Cinthya Cisneros for adopting me at the California Craft Beer Summit. Cheers to you both.
To Kristine Kobe, I raise a bottle to you.
To Brent Hopkins. Thank you for believing in us. I always knew you would be an excellent dad.
To the staff and trainees at Homeboy Industries, my deepest thanks always.
And most of all, to the readers, reviewers, bloggers, and amazing book people who took a chance on Thirsty and spread the word far and wide. Your enthusiasm has kept me afloat during a difficult year. Thank you for everything.
Also by Mia Hopkins
The Eastside Brewery series
Thirsty
Trashed
Tanked (coming soon)
The Cowboy Cocktail series
Cowboy Valentine
Cowboy Resurrection
Cowboy Player
Cowboy Karma
Cowboy Rising
The Kings of California series
Deep Down
Hollywood Honkytonk
About the Author
Mia Hopkins writes lush romances starring fun, sexy characters who love to get down and dirty. She’s a sucker for working class heroes, brainy heroines and wisecracking best friends. Her favorite form of procrastination is baking. She lives in Los Angeles with her family.
* * *
For more information…
www.miahopkinsauthor.com
* * *
@miahopkinsxoxo
Read on for an excerpt from
Tanked
An Eastside Brewery Novel
by Mia Hopkins
Tanked
One
No doubt about it. I am getting wing-manned.
Wing Man and his buddy Bad Haircut work in an office building downtown. I didn’t catch what they do. I’m smiling and pretending to listen. Luckily, the loud music here in the brewery keeps me from having to pretend too hard.
Out of the corner of my eye, I keep a close watch on my coworker Ingrid. She is tipsy, and her girlish unguardedness makes her even more attractive to men than usual.
Bad Haircut is slightly older than Wing Man. At first, he was the introverted one of the pair. After three beers, this is no longer the case. He and Ingrid are dancing even though nobody else is dancing. He says something. She laughs and flips her hair. He says something else. She laughs and flips her hair again. Ad nauseam.
On the barstool next to me, Wing Man looks bored. He pulls out his phone. There’s a photo of a young woman and a baby.
“That’s my girlfriend. That’s our little girl. She’s seven months old. I love them so much.”
The line sounds canned. If it’s a trick, it’s a good one, if not too subtle.
I can’t believe I drew my eyebrows in for this.
Carefully, I adjust my glasses, look at the phone and back up at him. “Oh, they’re beautiful!” I try to appear appropriately heartbroken that he is off the market. Satisfied, he smiles to himself and returns the phone to his pocket.
I take a long drink of my beer.
After a few more songs, Ingrid and I make quick eye contact. She touches her left earring. That means, “Let’s get out of here.” Right earring means, “You can go home. I’ll text you the address where I end up for the night.”
We tell the gentlemen we have to go—no explanations besides it’s late and we weren’t meaning to stay out. Bad Haircut protests. I have a feeling he doesn’t get out much because when we apologize, instead of being cool, he gets aggressive.
“Aw, why you gotta go?” He leans too close to Ingrid. I slip between them and hold a hand up to help him keep his distance.
“Don’t touch me,” he growls at me.
“Dude, I didn’t,” I say. I look at Wing Man. “Come get your boy.”
Wing Man shrugs and stays seated. “Don’t make her mad,” he tells his friend. “Big girl like that? She’ll take you out, bro.”
Bad Haircut stands between us and the door. “One more drink,” he tells Ingrid.
She’s too unsteady on her feet to do much more than smile and lean on me.
“We’re done for the night,” I say. I try to move Ingrid toward the exit, but Bad Haircut is in our way.
“How about you just go,” Wing Man says to me. He waves his hand in my face. “Bye-bye.”
His friend laughs and reaches for Ingrid.
I see a flash of the Eastside Brewery T-shirt before I know what’s going on.
“Holy shit,” Ingrid says in my ear.
I turn. The crowd has parted. By the front door, I see a large barback holding Ingrid’s would-be lover by the collar. He uses the man’s body to bang the door open. The patrons inside the brewery let out a collective gasp as he grabs Bad Haircut by the back of the belt, lifts him off his feet, and swings him forward in a perfect arc. Then the barback le
ts go. We watch as Bad Haircut goes sailing and lands face first on the sidewalk outside.
Wisely, he stays down.
The barback and the bouncer seated outside give each other a friendly little fist bump.
The crowd applauds and closes up like stage curtains.
I’ve never seen anything like this in real life. I am thoroughly impressed. Ingrid giggles. When I call for the check, I notice Wing Man is nowhere to be found.
Outside, the summer night is muggy and warm. Mercifully, there’s no sign of Wing Man or Bad Haircut. As the bouncer keeps an eye on us, I wait with Ingrid for her ride. I notice she’s glowing and she stands up straighter, like a plant that needed to be watered and finally got a drink. She loves it when guys lose their shit over her, and she thrives on drama like this. Also—and she would never say this—I know she likes going out with me because there’s no way in hell I’d be her competition.
Her grumpy sister arrives at last. She’s got rollers in her hair. I help Ingrid into the car, make sure she’s buckled in, and shut the door.
“That was so much fun. Let’s do this again?” Ingrid says through her open window. “Next Friday night?”
“Of course.”
“You’re such a good friend, Deanna.”
I watch as they drive away, wondering if the thought ever crossed Ingrid’s mind that I might get attacked and robbed on the way to my car, alone. Despite her lack of concern, I’m not afraid. Even though I live in Los Feliz now, I grew up here in East Los Angeles. This is home.
After a short walk, I reach my car. As I pull out my keys, I realize with a flash of annoyance that I’ve forgotten something. When I signed for the tab, I left my credit card on the tray.
“Son of a bitch,” I mumble to myself.
Eastside Brewery closes earlier than regular bars. It’s midnight when I arrive again. The bouncer is gone, so I let myself in through the unlocked door. The lights are on, but the place is empty and the music is off. I feel like I’m sneaking backstage after a show.
“Hello?” I shut the door behind me.
I know the owners, so I know a little of the brewery’s backstory. I spot clues that this place used to be a bakery. There are marks on the polished concrete floor where display cases were once installed. I look up and see high ceilings, vents, and fans. In the refrigerators that used to hold birthday cakes, wedding cakes, and pasteles de tres leches, I see rows of cans and bottles filled and ready to take home.
I walk up to the bar. “Hello?” I say again.
No answer.
I creep behind the counter and through the swinging doors into the kitchen. A big, shirtless man stands by the mop sink in the corner. His Eastside Brewery T-shirt hangs on a nearby shelf. The water is running loudly into the bucket, echoing in the big space.
“Eddie?” I say.
The man shuts off the water, wipes his hands on his apron, and turns around. “Naw, Eddie went home.” He has a quiet, deep voice. He steps out of the shadows. “Can I help you?”
I’m twenty-eight years old. My career as a social worker has ensured I’ve seen a cross section of humanity, a striated rainbow of highs and lows. I grew up poor, got scholarships, navigated the bullshit and institutionalized racism of the university system, got jobs, lost jobs. I’ve fallen in love and had my heart broken exactly three times. I have a big, loud, overbearing, flawed, beautiful family who makes my life both heaven and hell. They taught me that if life knocks me down nine times, I had better get up ten—otherwise, I’m not fit to call myself a Delgado.
All this to say…I think I’m a tough cookie.
I guess even tough cookies crumble in the face of nuclear hotness.
“Can I help you?” Shirtless asks again. His dark eyebrows furrow.
The barback—it’s him. Up close, I see he is younger than me, and he’s tall, stupid tall, maybe a foot above my five-foot-three. He’s got wavy dark hair and the very first chapter of an excellent beard. Eastside Brewery owes a small portion of its popularity to its owners Eddie and Sal, two handsome brothers who are very much off the market but still make awesome eye candy.
In my opinion, they aren’t even in the same league as this guy.
I struggle to keep my eyes on the level. This is not easy when there’s a big naked chest in your face. Fit but not bulky, he is cut and carries his muscle well. Smoky gray tattoos enhance his shoulders, his chest, his abs, his—
“Miss?” He lifts one eyebrow.
I blink. “Oh, yes. Excuse me. I’m looking for my card.”
“Your credit card? Did you lose it here?”
“No, I left it. On the tray, I think. After I signed my check. About half an hour ago or so,” I babble. “Eddie’s not here?” I know Eddie—Eddie’s safe.
“He went home,” Shirtless says again. “But I can help you. Come with me.”
I follow him out the swinging doors and stare freely at his smooth, muscled back. There are tattoos here for me to ogle too—skulls, roses, feathers, Aztec iconography, and the word Fallen in spidery, delicate script.
For the first time in a long time, I feel it.
Desire.
I want to touch this man so badly my fingertips tingle. Instead, I keep my arms straight down my sides and walk stiffly to where he stands by the bar.
He pulls a ring of keys from his pocket and unlocks a safe under the counter. Inside there’s a wallet, a silver bracelet, and a small cardboard box of credit cards.
“Happens a lot here,” Shirtless says. “People get drunk and forget they had a tab.”
“I wasn’t drunk,” I say quickly. “I rarely get drunk. I think I was just in a hurry to get home after all that…stuff. Also it’s late for me. I have to work tomorrow, pretty early, in fact. I have a special project and I’m eager to get started on it.”
He nods. I don’t think he’s listening. “What’s your name?”
“Deanna Delgado.”
“Delgado,” he mutters to himself. His long, strong fingers rifle through the cards and I notice—with some thrill—that he doesn’t wear a wedding ring. “Benítez, Cortéz, Castañeda…” He finds my card and holds it up between his index and middle fingers like a magician. “Delgado. There you go.”
For the first time, I look at him directly and our gazes lock together. His eyes are big and dark with long lashes. Heat pours through me. “Have we…have we met before?” I ask.
“I don’t think so,” he says, but he doesn’t look away. “Eddie and Sal are my older brothers. I’m Angel.”
Fallen angel. Apt.
“Nice to meet you,” I say, like a dork. “My name is—”
“Deanna Delgado. I got that.” He wiggles the card.
I take the credit card and slip it into my wallet. When I look up, Angel’s eyes are waiting to meet mine again. My body temperature goes up a thousand degrees.
“All good?” he asks.
“Yes. All good.” I fight to stay cool even though this staring game is making funny things happen to me. I clear my throat. “Also, I wanted to say thanks. For helping us out with that guy tonight. He was drunk, that’s all.”
“Maybe, but he was also an asshole,” Angel says. “That kind of bullshit doesn’t happen here. Not on my watch, anyway.”
My lady parts tingle. “Well, um, yeah. Good,” I manage. “Thanks again. Anyway.” Tingle tingle. “Good night.”
I turn. My feet are heavy as they take me away from the most gorgeous man I’ve ever met.
“Hey, hold up,” he says.
I turn around. To my dismay, he’s putting his shirt back on, but the cotton strains over his shoulders in the most delightful way. How could someone getting dressed be so sexy?
“Do you have a minute?” he asks. “I need some help.” He opens up a big metal refrigerator and pulls out a clear pitcher filled with bright green liquid. “I’m working on something new. I could use some feedback before I let my brothers try it tomorrow. Interested?”
I look around and my urban wom
an alarms go off. I’m alone in an enclosed space with a stranger—albeit a very, very good-looking stranger—who is offering me what could be double-strength Rohypnol punch.
Angel sees my hesitation. He grabs two clean glasses and fills them from the same pitcher. “What if we sit at the big table?”
It’s like he’s read my mind. The front door is still unlocked for an easy exit if I need one. The big table is right next to the front windows where people can see directly inside.
I look at the glasses in his hands. “What is it?” I ask.
“A new agua fresca. I’ve been working on it for a couple weeks.” He studies my face. “There’s no alcohol.”
My alarms stand down, but I stay alert. “Okay,” I say at last. “Sure.”
I have a feeling Angel is not a smiley man. He nods and says, “After you.”
I sit and he takes a seat opposite me. He puts the glasses down in front of us and waits for me to choose the one I want, further suggesting that he understands my justified fear of getting drugged by a stranger.
“The ingredients are lime, fresh ginger, mint, agave nectar, and spinach,” he says.
I guess I make a face at the last item.
“You can’t taste the spinach,” he says. “It’s just for color.”
We clink glasses. “Salud,” I say.
The drink is refreshing. Sharp and complex. I didn’t realize I was thirsty until I had a taste. Now I want more. Which could be said of this entire experience with Angel.
“What do you think?”
“It’s so good,” I say. “Much less sweet than I expected. I like it.”