Trashed: An Eastside Brewery Novel Read online

  Praise for Thirsty by Mia Hopkins

  ONE OF THE BEST ROMANCE NOVELS OF THE YEAR. “A powerful, honest look at love as both a motivation and a risk.”

  The Washington Post

  “Thirsty held me captivated from its first page to its last . . . A singular reading experience.”

  USA Today

  “Bold and unapologetic.”

  Smexy Books

  “A brilliant read. There are good writers, and then there are writers that just leave you in awe. And Hopkins has definitely left me in awe.”

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  “A sizzling, emotionally intense story that is both gritty and heartwarming, an addictive page-turner that will stay with me for a long time to come.”

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  “Sexy and soul-wrenching, with Sal’s irresistible voice luring you through a living, breathing Los Angeles.”

  USA Today bestselling author Sierra Simone

  “An amazing read! I stayed up way too late to finish and haven’t stopped thinking about the characters. Highly recommended!”

  USA Today bestselling author Molly O’Keefe

  Trashed

  An Eastside Brewery Novel

  Mia Hopkins

  Copyright © 2019 by Mia Hopkins

  Excerpt from Tanked by Mia Hopkins copyright © 2019 by Mia Hopkins

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Ebook ISBN 978-0-9996306-1-7

  Print ISBN 978-0-9996306-2-4

  * * *

  Edited by Jennifer Haymore

  Cover by Syneca

  Trashed is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  Note to Readers

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Mia Hopkins

  About the Author

  Preview

  Tanked

  Prologue

  September

  A woman stands in the garden.

  She’s tall and dark, about my age. She walks the rows by herself, stopping every few steps to taste a berry or rub a leaf between her fingers and smell it. Her hair is tied up tight. No makeup. She wears a loose white T-shirt and striped black pants—some kind of uniform, I guess.

  She doesn’t notice me watching her.

  I put my cigarette out in the ashtray by Rafa’s door. I’m wearing basketball shorts, no shirt.

  I’ve spent the last five years standing on nothing but concrete. When I step down, the dirt feels like heaven against my bare feet. When I look up, my eyeballs almost can’t take in all the color and light. The morning sky is too blue. The plants in the garden are too green. And the woman—this woman—is so beautiful I can’t stop staring at her.

  Silently, I watch her through the leaves of the avocado tree. She bends down in the vegetables. Her dark, pretty hands pull back the leaves to examine the squash or eggplants or chilies growing in the shadows. She picks some hierbabuena and sticks the dark leaves in her mouth. I grab some and do the same. Fresh. Green, alive—this is how she’d taste if I kissed her right now.

  A single red berry hides under the last of the strawberry plants. She bends down, plucks it, and takes a bite. The juice stains her lips.

  I’m fantasizing about kissing her again when it happens.

  She falls forward and catches herself on her hands. From where I’m standing, her whole body shakes.

  For a second, I hesitate. What do I do? There’s no one to tell me what to do. No corrections officer, no shot-caller. I’m on my own.

  For once, I have to decide for myself.

  I take a deep breath, creep out of my hiding place and walk over to her. I kneel in the dirt, hold her shoulders and slowly pull her upright.

  “Hey,” I say. “Are you—are you okay?”

  When she raises her head, I see her cheeks are wet with tears. She’s crying—hard, silently—the kind of crying that comes from deep down inside.

  “Are you hurt?” I check out her arms, her hands. No cuts, no blood, no bruises.

  She rubs her nose with the back of her arm and for the first time seems to realize I’m here. She blinks and her dark eyes search my face. Teardrops hang on her long eyelashes.

  “Is the caretaker here?” Her voice is rough from crying.

  “No, Rafa’s not here right now,” I say softly. “I don’t know where he went.” I look around the community garden, but we’re alone. My mind struggles to find a way to help her. “Would you…would you like a glass of water?”

  She’s confused by the question, but after a moment, she nods.

  “Do you think you can stand up?” I ask.

  She nods again.

  I help her to her feet. I take her arm and put my hand on her back to help her balance. I can feel her shoulder blades through the thin cotton of her T-shirt. Flaca—so skinny. My heart is pounding a mix of blood and adrenaline. I tell myself to calm down.

  Breathe, Trouble. Breathe.

  We walk to the trailer and climb inside. “Uh, ignore the guy passed out on the sofa,” I say quietly. “He’s had a hard night.”

  We tiptoe past my older brother snoring under a blanket in the living room, and I lead her into the room in the back of the trailer. She sits down on the bed. I get her a glass of water. The bedroom is tiny, no other furniture, so I sit down next to her. The bed squeaks under my weight.

  Being back in a small space makes me feel calmer. But as she takes a drink, her arm touches mine. Her skin is warm from the sun. It’s baby soft compared to my skin, all tattooed and scarred and leathery. I have to concentrate to keep from jumping back—it’s been so long since a woman has touched me. So fucking long.

  When she’s finished, I take the empty glass from her and put it on the bedside table. She sobs again and collapses against me. I jerk backward for a second, and my brain floods with panic.

  I lecture myself. She’s crying. You’re alone with her. She could accuse you of assault. Or worse. Shit. You’d be back behind bars before—

  She has no idea what I’m feeling. She rests her cheek against my chest. Her tears wet my skin. After I silently count to ten, I put my arms gently around her. A sound comes out of my mouth like a word in a language I learned a long time ago, but never use.

  “Shh, shh.”

  While she cries, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Her hair—it smells like cilantro from the garden. The bright, sharp scent takes me back, reminds me of late nights trashed wi
th my homeboys, scarfing down tacos on the sidewalk. Of my family’s garden, a million years ago.

  Of East LA—of home.

  Her hand slides up my back and hangs on my shoulder. I blink. Under her fingers, my skin tingles. She’s warm and alive. Me? I’m frozen, barely breathing.

  “Do you…wanna talk about what’s bothering you?” I ask.

  She sniffles and leans deeper into me. “No, not really.”

  “Do you want more water?”

  “No.”

  I’m pretty good at reading people but I can’t get a decent read on her. She’s feeling all her emotions at once, and I don’t know why.

  She tips her head back.

  I stay still as stone.

  For the first time in five years, I kiss a woman.

  No. Even better—a woman kisses me.

  Her lips are full and hot, sweet with fresh herbs. My heartbeat races. Blood pounds through me.

  Jesus.

  I forgot. In my world of hard edges and hard surfaces, I forgot that anything existed as soft and sweet as a woman’s lips.

  With her kiss, she drags me into the dark heat, the hunger that’s haunted me for so long. My world tilts sideways, but before I let myself enjoy it, I jerk back again.

  I have to assess this situation.

  One, she’s upset.

  Two, I’m horny as shit.

  Bad combination.

  “Wait,” I say. “Hold up.”

  Up close, her eyes are deep, deep brown. “What?”

  I’m speechless, caught in the moment.

  “Don’t you want this?” she asks.

  “Yeah, ’course I do, but—”

  She covers my lips with hers, and all the air leaves my lungs. She reaches for the metal clip holding her bun in place and pulls it like the pin of a grenade. Her black hair tumbles down, straight and shiny. I breathe deep. Heat pours through me, but I stop her again.

  “Tell me your name, at least,” I say.

  She blinks. “Haven’t you ever wanted to do something completely reckless?”

  I can’t help it. I crack a smile. If only she knew. “Reckless? Yeah. Sometimes.”

  She stands up and closes the bedroom door with a quiet click. I watch her trembling fingers lift up her T-shirt. Static crackles over her hair as she pulls the shirt over her head. My eyes drop to her simple pink bra, to her pretty tits, to the little belly that curves from her long body. She drops the shirt on the floor and goosebumps break out all over her beautiful brown skin.

  We lock eyes. She’s not afraid of me. She should be.

  “Are you sure?” I ask.

  She nods.

  “But you look like a good girl.”

  She shrugs. “Looks can be deceiving.”

  This is crazy. I shake my head and laugh a little. “So…do you do this a lot?”

  “Do what?”

  “Fuck strangers?”

  She doesn’t flinch at the dirty word. “No,” she says. “Never, in fact.”

  I watch, hypnotized, as she steps out of her black work shoes and takes off her socks. Her feet are long and pretty, toenails neat. No nail polish. She stands up straight. Just before she unbuttons her pants, her hands freeze on her fly.

  “Condoms?” she whispers.

  I’m dazed. “What?”

  “Do you have condoms?”

  “Yeah—yeah. I do.” Cigarettes, a burner phone—these were my first purchases when I stepped off the bus from Delano. Before I left the counter of the liquor store, I bought some condoms. At the time, I felt stupid, too optimistic. But now, relieved, I reach into my backpack, take out the foil strip, and lay it on the bed.

  She nods at me and takes off her pants. Her cotton panties are blue with little daisies.

  I realize I’m holding my breath. That, combined with the rapid movement of blood to my dick, makes me dizzy. I force myself to breathe.

  “Come on. Tell me. What’s your name?” I ask.

  Instead of answering my question, she leans forward and kisses me again. She runs her hands down my chest, over my scar tissue and the tattoos I got to cover up the ugly reminders of the night I got busted. I realize somewhere in my hazy brain that this is the first time I’ve messed around since the shooting. I was eighteen then, a player, a pretty face. I’m twenty-three now, a shadow. A nobody.

  With her long legs, she climbs on top of me. I reach up and comb my hands through her cool, heavy hair. I stroke the back of her smooth neck, pinning her mouth to mine. She slips the tip of her tongue between my lips, searching me out. I cup the back of her head in my hand and kiss her deep, tasting her, finally giving her my tongue.

  She moans.

  The air leaves my lungs.

  I’m lost.

  There, in the tiny, quiet bedroom of Rafa’s trailer, under the framed paintings of saints, La Virgen de Guadalupe, Santo Muerto, and a faded photo of Pope John Paul II, the gods answer my prayers. This beautiful woman lets me strip her naked. I remove her bra and panties and watch as she lies down on the bed.

  For so long, my whole world was a cell, a day room, a concrete yard, and the nasty mess inside my head. Old-timers let me borrow their raggedy-ass romance novels to help me cope. Homies who had been in and out of the pinta warned me how good my first time would be when I got out.

  But this.

  This is better than good. Better than amazing.

  I stroke the smooth skin of her face and dive deep into those dark eyes. I kiss her and kiss her. I kiss her until her lips are swollen, until I memorize her sweet flavor and drink it deep. I kiss her neck and massage her breasts. I put my hands on her hips, pin her to the mattress and suck her tiny nipples, swirling them with my tongue and grazing them with my teeth until she is trembling beneath me.

  “Yes,” she whispers.

  After a long time, I put my hands on her thighs and spread them apart. She is natural but neat, with a triangle of short black hair above the most beautiful dark pussy I have ever seen. I take a deep breath of her, and every part of my brain blazes up.

  “Why are you letting me do this?” I ask.

  “Because.”

  “Because?”

  “Because I need you to help me forget.” She trails her long fingers over her body, offering herself to me. A gift—one I don’t deserve.

  “Forget what?” I ask.

  “Everything,” she whispers. “All of it.”

  One

  February

  At sunset, I ride across the bridge. Behind me is my hood. In front of me, beyond the river and the rail yards, downtown Los Angeles rises up with its tall buildings and cranes like giants.

  For Valentine’s Day, pink and red lights flash along the top of the US Bank Tower. I’m a romantic. You wouldn’t know it by looking at me. My friend Rafa teased me before I left the trailer.

  “Going to see your Valentine, Trouble?” he asked.

  “Shit, I wish,” I said.

  My lonely ass passes warehouses and factories, homeless camps and fancy remodeled apartment buildings. In the jewelry district, traffic gets heavy, but I weave through the cars.

  The place I’m looking for sits on the ground floor of one of the big glass skyscrapers. White light floods its sign, no missing it.

  Giacomo’s.

  I ride my bike down a narrow alley until I find a pair of Dumpsters and a back door.

  The cold wind between the buildings is so strong, I almost fall over when I stop. I catch myself and carefully lock my piece-of-shit bike to some exposed pipes. My ears are still ringing from the wind as I open the heavy metal door. It slams shut behind me.

  I stand there, blinking in the bright lights.

  I’ve never been in a restaurant kitchen before. It’s big. Red tile floor. Everything is steel—countertops, shelves, refrigerators, ovens, pots and pans. There’s an army of cooks dressed in striped pants and white jackets and aprons, cutting vegetables or butchering meat or mixing up weird-looking things in bowls as big as sinks.


  I’m supposed to find the general manager. For a second, I study the faces of the staff. A couple of them are white, but most of them are brown. Are any of these guys the general manager?

  I take another step into the kitchen. Some of the cooks raise their heads from their work. A few of them look surprised before they turn their faces away.

  This reaction is nothing new to me.

  I’m not exactly Mickey Mouse.

  A cook pushing a cart full of boxes crosses my path. He’s got a big black mustache and that ageless look the veteranos in my neighborhood sometimes have. He could be twenty-eight or fifty-eight—hard to tell.

  “Excuse me,” I say to him, “I’m looking for the general manager. Do you know where he is?”

  “The GM? Dino?” The cook looks too busy to ask who I am or what I want with the general manager. “Check the office. Over there.” He gestures to some doors on the other side of the kitchen.

  The other cooks give me the side eye as I cross their territory and enter the swinging doors. On the other side across a hallway is a tiny office where a white dude in a navy-blue suit and a pink shirt sits at a desk.

  “Hello?” I ask.

  The man swivels in his chair. He’s got narrow shoulders and a little paunch. His gray hair is wavy and carefully styled. His reaction to me is exactly what I expect. He sits up straight and his eyes widen. We’re alone in the office and he’s scared.