Caffeinated Magic: Supernatural Barista Academy Read online

   Copyright 2020 by Rylee Sanibel - All rights reserved.

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  Caffeinated Magic

  Supernatural Barista Academy

  By

  Rylee Sanibel

  Soft Kiss Books

  Contents

  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

  Review

  Chapter 1

  The night was dark and thick with gloom as Abby Hall made her way unenthusiastically through the labyrinthine streets of Rotwood Harbor, the least desirable neighborhood in the town of Ravencharm. Tendrils of mist crept up from the banks of the muddy river, slinking surreptitiously around corners and pooling in the hollows of the road. In most towns, the riverside property belongs to the fat cats, but in Ravencharm, the wealthy lived upon the hills in the center of town. They still got a view of the river as it looped its amiable, crusty arm around Rotwood Harbor; but, it was a distant, scenic one, devoid of the trash, debris and, scrap that littered the riverside.

  Abby took a deep breath of fresh – a relative term in Rotwood Harbor – air and looked left and right. As she stood, making sure that there were no suspicious characters around, a rat scurried out of a crack and hopped onto her shoe. It looked up at her and squeaked. With a shudder, Abby kicked it off and it smacked against the alley wall. It fell to the ground, squealed in an aggrieved manner and then jumped onto another rat and started humping it.

  “Ah,” Abby murmured, “and they say romance is dead in this town!”

  She hurried through the desolate streets with her head down and her hands stuffed deep into the pockets of her hooded sweater. She was twenty-two years old and fresh out of college with a degree in chemistry that she’d gained with honors. Her head was bursting with knowledge and dreams and the hope of a prosperous future.

  Or, at least, it had been.

  It had taken a few weeks of fruitless job searching for her to realize that the world she inhabited, and the economy she was part of, didn’t want or need chemistry majors. And so, naturally, she had ended up at the ass-end of town, working in the Flick the Bean coffee shop.

  She’d thought that once college ended, she’d be on Easy Street inundated with job offers and she could finally leave her old life behind her and start anew. She could forget about the father who had abandoned her, the mother that had palmed her off to her grandmother, the grandmother who had dumped her at the first foster home she could, and the four other foster homes after that.

  As she passed the huddled figure of a homeless person in a doorway, they gave her a piercing wolf-whistle.

  “Hot diggidy, girl!” the shrouded form croaked. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen a pair of legs like that! How about you come over here and let me have a little nibble on ‘em? I’m hungry.”

  It hadn’t taken Abby long to get used to catcalls on her way to work. The miniskirt she wore invited them.

  “You can’t have my legs. I’ll need them for when my Prince Charming comes and sweeps me off my feet,” she informed him. “But how about you take these salt-weed crackers? I’ve been eating them for the past week and I’m sick of them.”

  She tossed a packet of the green crackers to the huddled form and walked on.

  “Much obliged,” came the hoarse reply.

  Abby sighed as she trudged through the murk. The thought of having to deal with Chaz, the touchy-feely manager of Flick the Bean, sat like the bitterest dark-roast in her stomach.

  Chaz was three years her junior and, while she’d been studying diligently, he had been working his way up from dishwasher to the dizzying heights of store manager. This presumably meant, Chaz got paid slightly more than fuck-all wage Abby earned. It also meant that, while Abby could identify and interpret organic compounds and reactions, measure kinetic chemical change and recite the principals behind thermodynamics – the handsy nineteen-year-old Chaz knew how to make one hell of a quad long-shot salted caramel mocha latte – decaf, of course.

  Everything was decaf. Caffeine was regarded by the authorities as highly addictive and was considered a class-A narcotic. Decaf was a given.

  Another given was that young Chaz could be guaranteed to make a pass at Abby at least fourteen times during any shift that they worked together. And they worked together a lot because Chaz was in charge of scheduling.

  Abby sighed again. It wasn’t that Chaz wasn’t attractive, but he thought he was a lot cuter than he was. At some point, he had been seized by the distorted belief that cultivating a mustache would make him appear more managerial. Patchy lip hair that looked more like a fluff of dog hair rarely benefited a man’s face. There are few things more likely to detract from a human male’s fuckability than a mustache such as this. One of those few things is a mustache of this variety groomed into a handlebar shape; nevertheless, this is precisely what Chaz had attempted to do.

  Abby had thought to herself a few times that, if Chaz was to do the honorable thing and scour his top lip of that particular piece of facial furniture, she might just bang him – if she was feeling particularly lonely… and drunk.

  As she rounded the corner that led to the road Flick the Bean was situated on, Abby did a bit of mental arithmetic to calculate how much her check would be this week. She quickly reined her mind back from the depressing truth when she spied what the likely total was going to be in her mind’s eye.

  As she got closer to Flick the Bean, the pervading scent of her favorite foxberry scones came out to meet her like an old friend, mingling with the less tasty, pungent stench drifting in off the river. Even the delicious smell of the freshly baked scones acted as a catalyst for despondency as, ironically, Abby couldn’t even afford to buy the scrumptious baked treats that were so popular in Ravencharm. She resigned herself to another eight hours spent ignoring her grumbling stomach and swatting Chaz’s wandering hands away like big pink flies that were intent on landing on her backside.

  There was one difference about today, though – one that Abby highly doubted was going to set her world alight – and that was that it was the first time she had ever worked a night shift at Flick the Bean.

  ***

  As Abby suspected, the night shift was just as mentally taxing as the day shift – that is to say, not very. Customers came and went, most purchasing large cups of Flick the Bean’s standard decaf, as it was the cheapest option on the menu.

  One new development, and not one that Abby was that stoked about, was that Chaz seemed to have gotten it into his frat-boy, mustachioed head that he was going to call her ‘babe’ during their shift.

  Abby thought briefly about telling him in honeyed tones, if he called her ‘babe’ one more time, she was going to put his head into the sandwich press and squeeze it like the ham and cheese on rye that Flick the Bean offered its patrons. It wasn’t that she was worried that Chaz would fire her. She knew he’d never get rid of her, since he enjoyed squeezing, patting and ‘accidentally’ nudging her ass with his crotch when he squeezed past
her. But it was easier to tune him out and go back to thinking about the latest scientific article on the properties of caffeine she’d been perusing in her studio apartment.

  Abby smiled, handed a donut and decaf macchiato to a small, wizened old man with shifty eyes, and waved him out of the store.

  “Abby, babe,” Chaz said, leaning back on the counter in what he probably thought was quite a debonair fashion – had he been aware of the existence of the word ‘debonair’ – and running a finger thoughtfully over his handlebar mustache. “Abby, babe, have I told you what a goddamn great job I think you’re doing here?”

  He had, on numerous occasions. He must have believed if he flattered Abby enough on her abilities to pour coffee and pull donuts and slices of pie from the cabinet, that she would one day throw caution to the wind and started sucking him off in the middle of the coffee shop.

  “Thanks, Chaz,” Abby said. “Any chance of a raise in that case? Maybe then I can start eating something other than freakin’ salt-weed crackers.”

  Chaz laughed and wagged a finger at her. “You’re funny, Abby.”

  “I wasn’t kidding,” Abby grumbled.

  This made Chaz chuckle all the more. He took a step toward her, the light of seduction shining in his eye, his nomadic hands reaching tentatively upward as if to take her by the shoulders.

  Abby envisioned stepping into his embrace, wrapping her arms around him, pulling him close – and then delivering a knee of such intensity to his meat and potatoes that he’d think a horse had kicked him.

  Just as she was preparing herself to repel his advances, the door to the empty coffee shop burst inward, ringing the bell above it.

  A man in what could generously be described as a mask, although it was just an old bag with holes inexpertly cut out of it for eyeholes, surged into the room like a foul-mouthed hurricane.

  “All right, you raven-fuckers!” he screamed, blasting the petrified Abby with breath consisting of one part stale coffee, one part tobacco, and eight parts halitosis. “Get on the fucking ground, now!” The figure jumped nimbly onto the counter and, for the first time, Abby noticed that he was clutching a gun in one grubby hand. Her heart fluttered in her chest at the sight of the weapon.

  As a lucky resident of the haven that was Rotwood Harbor, Abby was, more often than not, lulled to sleep by the sporadic bark of small-arms fire and screaming at night. However, due to never having money to do anything, she usually made her way quickly home after work, where she would curl up with some scientific journal. This was the first time that she had come nose to nose with the unsavory nocturnal world of this part of Ravencharm.

  “Get on the fucking ground before I blow your raven-fucking heads off!” the man screamed, flourishing the gun in a way that a part of Abby’s brain – the part that wasn’t huddled in the corner, pissing itself with fright – thought was very unsafe. “Do it! Get on the –”

  The man’s eloquent dialogue was cut short as he stepped in a small puddle of chocolate syrup, slipped off the counter, and crashed onto the floor. Abby had to hand it to him; he was up in a flash and with only the slightest appearance of mortification.

  “You!” he screamed, turning the gun on Abby. “Open the cash drawer, raven-tits!” He paused as if he’d just been struck over the dome by inspiration. “And give me a dozen of the chocolate sea-stallion donuts while you’re at it!”

  Abby, trembling all over, reached for the tongs and before she could stop herself said, “Well, which is it?”

  “What? What the fuck’re you talking about?”

  “What do you want me to do?” Abby asked, a touch of her old acerbity coloring her words. “Get on the floor or get you the money and donuts? I can’t do both.”

  The man hesitated. Then he snarled, “Get your smart-ass over to the cash drawer, get my money, then my donuts and then get on the friggin’ ground! And if you even try and give me any of those glazed saltweed éclairs I swear to the gods that I’ll fill you so full of lead that we could tie a line to your ankles and use you as a fishing sinker.”

  Abby could feel the onset of hysterics building, coming slowly to the surface like a bubble of air making its way up through a tar pit.

  “Hurry, bitch!” the man screamed. “Or I’ll cappuccino your petite ass!”

  Just as Abby had summoned the courage to grip the first of the chocolate sea-stallion donuts, Chaz, unexpectedly, piped up. His finger was nervously stoking his pubescent lip-rug as if to assure himself that it was still there.

  “Drunk Willy?” he said, unstiffening slightly from where he stood in the corner.

  Great, Abby thought, now I’m going to have to watch Chaz’s tiny brain get blown out of his mustache-decorated head.

  The masked assailant turned at the sound of the name but said nothing. His gun was still fixed on Abby. Abby noticed that the hand holding it was shaking rather nervously.

  “Drunk Willy,” Chaz said again. “I thought it might be you. Couldn’t tell with that bag on your head. Nice touch. Where’d you get it?”

  The desperado looked from Chaz to Abby and back to Chaz, and Abby couldn’t help but get the feeling that the man’s resolve was trickling out of him like sand from a broken hourglass.

  “It’s my mom’s,” the would-be-thief muttered.

  Chaz whistled. “Shit, Drunk Willy, I knew you were crazy, but I didn’t know you were that nuts. She’s going to go through the goddamn roof when she finds out you’ve cut holes in her handbag.”

  The robber – Drunk Willy – pulled the bag off his head, revealing a scarred and stubbly face, a mess of ginger hair and a couple of eyes that were red and so tightened and squinty from drink that they looked like a couple of piss-holes in the snow.

  “I dunno why you bother, man,” Chaz said. “I really don’t. You know we don’t have hardly any cash in this store.” He shook his head sadly, exchanging a look with Abby that was half exasperation, half wonder. Then he noticed that the gun in Drunk Willy’s hand was still pointing at her chest.

  “Willy, put that toy gun away, will you?” he scoffed. “You’re scaring Abby.”

  Drunk Willy’s hand dropped to his side and he gave Abby a sheepish grin.

  “Look, Drunk Willy,” Chaz said, “if you’re so dead-set on robbing one of these joints, why don’t you go and hold up Charms of Joe in the center of town? They’re bound to have mugs full of money coming out of their ears up there.”

  Willy snorted and choked, and Abby realized that the repulsive man was laughing. “Oh yeah, Chaz, I’ll just toddle up there with my homemade mask and stick up a place in the center of town! Just like that! Jesus raven-fucking Christ, I might be thicker than whale custard, but I ain’t that fucking thick! The law would be on me before you could count to ten.”

  Chaz nodded in a commiserating fashion. “Yeah,” he replied. “I guess the cops actually patrol up there, don’t they?”

  “Not to mention,” said Willy, “that I’d probably get laughed out of the place first. The thieves up that end of town have sunglasses and balaclavas and hockey masks, not their mom’s crappy old handbag, which they had to empty of a vibrator before cutting holes in!”

  “Raven-balls, that’s a disgusting thought,” Chaz murmured. He shook his head. “Look, Willy, just get the fuck out, will you? Here, take these two double-chocolate silver-charmed sea-stallion donuts. They’re a bit stale but better than a stab in the eye with a pair of metal tongs, which is exactly what I think Abby might give your goofy ass if you don’t skedaddle.”

  Drunk Willy picked up the paper bag containing the stale donuts and, with a nod at Abby and a wink at Chaz, backed out into the night. The door closed with a soft tinkle behind him.

  Slowly, Abby lowered the tongs she had been clutching like a battle sword.

  “Who,” she asked, “the fuck was that?”

  “That?” Chaz said. “That was Drunk Willy.”

  “Yeah, I got that, Chaz. What I meant was, who in the hell is Drunk Willy?”


  Chaz smiled at her, one of those comforting ones that people usually reserve for children, and this lit a small fire of resentment and anger in the pit of Abby’s stomach.

  “Drunk Willy’s just this local guy, you know.”

  “I’ve never seen him.”

  “Well, he doesn’t usually have a bag on his head.”

  It took all of Abby’s self-restraint to keep from smacking herself in the head with the flat of her hand. “I mean, I’ve been working here for weeks now and I’ve never seen him before. Yet you make it sound like he’s a regular.”

  “Oh, right,” Chaz said, “I see what you mean. Yeah, you wouldn’t have seen Drunk Willy before, would you? No, he usually comes in for a robbery attempt at least once a week.”

  “He tries to rob the store once a week?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I imagine he feels less bad about trying to rob us than he does about just flat-out asking us for food. It’s a pride thing.” Chaz shrugged.

  “But he had a gun.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not a real one.”

  “Oh, that’s all right then,” Abby said, shaking her head in disbelief. “Why don’t you call the cops?”

  Chaz shrugged again and started to wipe up the chocolate syrup that Drunk Willy had smeared over the counter when he’d fallen. “I did the first few times he did it, but the cops don’t seem that interested, to be honest. They took him away the first time, but then when he just kept doing the exact same thing they figured it for what it was.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Well, it’s just, kind of, overly dramatic begging, really.” Chaz rinsed the cloth under a tap. “I kind of respect him for it, in a way.”

  “What?”

  “Well, at least he’s putting on a show, right? Like a little bit of theater. Not just asking for free stuff and fucking off.”

  Abby shook her head again, tossed the silver tongs on the counter, and slumped onto a stool. She gave a shaky laugh.