Free Raw Power: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Demon-Hearted Book 1) by Ambrose Ibsen Page B

the main drag.
    I needed a drink.
    ***
    The day was young, but I didn't much care. When you're in a business like mine, people don't think twice when they see you drinking hard liquor at ten in the morning. I stopped by my place long enough to take a shower and throw on a proper shirt, and then paid a long visit to a local restaurant that specializes in kegs n' eggs. Sucking down several beers, a few omelets and some sides of greasy hash browns, I realized I wasn't full yet. The hunger that came over me then felt insatiable, and before I left, my gut sticking out a few more inches than usual, I ordered a couple of shots, along with a bacon cheeseburger, fries and sundae.
    With an ass-load of money in my wallet and nothing but time to kill until Kubo deigned to call me, I started down the street for Sam The Record Man, eager to pick up some new vinyl. I had a pretty decent audio setup at home and collected records when my finances allowed. Some jazz or classical on the turntable, a long bath and some good booze-- not the cheap stuff-- sounded like a damn fine way to spend the day. Maybe I'd be able to forget everything I'd just been through. I even considered stopping by at the cigar shop across the street as I pulled open the front door of Sam's and walked in.
    My appreciation of art extends far beyond pictures. Music is the air I breathe; I listen to it while driving, while doing the dishes, while going for walks. Not a day goes by that I don't listen to at least a few tunes, and my tastes are pretty eclectic. My favorite genres have always been jazz and classical, but I have a soft spot in my heart for alternative rock styles like shoegaze and poppier stuff, like twee. Sam's was the best damn record store in town, and they always brought the goods. I knew the owner to be a guy with excellent taste, and whenever he worked the two of us would often spend an hour or more just hanging out at the counter, talking about Bill Evans, Art Blakey and others. At Sam's, I knew everyone who worked there by name, was comfortable with every face behind the counter and almost felt like the store was a home away from home. It was anyone's guess how many hours I'd spent in the place over the years.
    Stepping inside, I was hit immediately by that somewhat stuffy, papery smell you get when you cram thousands of records and CDs into a confined space. It wasn't a large building; the main room was devoted to CDs, and a smaller room beyond it, accessed by a narrow doorway, housed rows upon rows of records. Virtually every surface was crammed with goods; if not for my love of music, I might've been disgusted by the place. Once, I'd taken a girl there on a date and she'd hated it, called it a hoarder's nest. Looking over the dense stacks bathed in the dim lighting, I could see what she meant.
    Wheeling over towards the desk, I saw it was Scott working there. He was a cool guy, a few years younger than me, and his interest was mainly in old new wave bands like Talking Heads and Devo. I'd been hoping to find Jessie working the counter today. She was a real treat for the eyes; barely eighteen and covered from head to toe in awesome tattoos. Her sleeve tattoos were done up like trees, crowded with green leaves and peppered with small forest animals. She had this other one, too, on her lower back, which I'd admired one night after a party when she decided to come over to my place and--
    Anyway, it occurs to me that that's a story for another time. More important things were happening in Sam's than my boner-inducing reverie.
      Scott was standing behind the counter, looking at me with wide eyes, his mouth half-open like he'd just gotten the wind knocked out of him. No, actually, he was crouching , grabbing at the edge of the counter with one hand and furtively searching with the other for the Louisville Slugger I knew the staff to keep behind the counter. At the sight of me, the guy looked poised to shit himself, and I couldn't for the life of me say