Demon Ex Machina: Tales of a Demon-Hunting Soccer Mom by Julie Kenner Page B

pretty sure he eats baby wipes and Kleenex when I’m not looking,” she said, and the little boy lifted his eyes toward the ceiling and shook his head in mock exasperation, an affectation so funny on a toddler it had me smiling.
    “I know the feeling.”
    “Listen, I’ve been meaning to pop in and ask about your class. I’d love to sign up. Does it start soon?”
    “I’ve got a class at four, actually, if you want. Three Saturdays, and then I’ll start a new session.” Technically, the class was sold out, but I figured Cutter would give me a pass if I squeezed one more student in.
    “Oh, could I?” She bounced junior on her hip. “I think about him, you know? And I just want to be safe.”
    I squeezed my own little boy, clinging to my neck like a monkey. “Yeah,” I said. “I know exactly what you mean.”
     
     
    “Best thing to do’s just grab ’em in the nuts,” Rita Walker—Fran’s eighty-six-year-old mother—announced to a smattering of applause. “That’ll show him who’s boss.”
    “Actually,” I said, “Rita has a point.” The class was scheduled for two hours each Saturday over the course of three weeks, and though I’d originally planned to open the class with a discussion of theory, basic awareness, and how to not project yourself as a victim, I soon realized that this group was keen to jump straight into the middle of things. Which left me altering my lesson plan on the fly. “And we’ll come back to that in more detail, but for the moment, let’s go with it.” I signaled to Cutter. “Want to give us a hand?”
    Rita snorted. “Ain’t his hand you’re gonna be mangling now, is it?”
    “Guess I’m glad I wore a cup,” he said.
    “But did you wear shoes?” I asked, with an evil grin.
    His brows lifted, and he cocked his head, knowing full well what was coming. “Well, hell,” he said.
    I laughed. “You’re the one who suggested I play teacher.”
    “But I never suggested I play victim.”
    “You’re not,” I said. “That would be me.” I turned my attention to the ladies. “Okay, now here I am, foolishly standing outside my car rummaging in my purse for my keys. What’s the first thing I did wrong?”
    “You should have put them in your hand before you left the store or your house or whatever.”
    “And you should check under the car. Could be some whack-job on his belly with a knife.”
    “Both right,” I said, continuing to pantomime a frustrated shopper. “And here comes the bad guy.”
    I couldn’t see him behind me, but from the cackles of laughter, I assumed Cutter had pasted on a Snidely Whip-lash expression and was creeping toward me on tiptoes. I continued to frantically rummage in my pretend purse until I felt his arm snap around my neck, pulling me close.
    I reached back and clamped down hard at his groin, thankfully not doing any damage—or embarrassing either of us too fully—because of the cup he’d had the foresight to wear. “That’s not it, though, ladies. You’d think it would be, but—” I stepped back and down, smashing the instep of Cutter’s left foot and eliciting a howl from my injured-yet-helpful sensei.
    I turned, flashed him a smile, and let the applause slide over me.
    “Okay, ladies. Partner up and you try it. Don’t grab tight, and stomp down on the mat, not on your partner’s foot. I don’t want any genuine injuries.”
    “Now you’re concerned,” muttered Cutter.
    I made a rude noise and rolled my eyes. “Come on, Sean. Be a man.”
    “If you’d grabbed me any tighter, I don’t think I would be anymore.”
    “I’m not terribly worried.” As examples of the male species went, Cutter was a prime specimen—a blackbelt several times over, former military, and loyal to a fault. He’s also damn good-looking, a little fact that I think played at least some part in my sold-out class tonight. “Buck up and help me make rounds,” I added with a grin.
    We spent the next ten minutes circling the practicing