Carpe Demon: Adventures of a Demon-Hunting Soccer Mom

by Julie Kenner

  I tugged my hand away. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Tyler. I was hoping to talk to the owner.”

  “You are.” I must have looked confused, because he continued, lowering his voice so none of the lingering students could hear. “There is no Victor Leung. It’s all about—”

  “PR. Yeah, I’ve heard this one before.”

  He rocked back on his heels, his eyes dark and his mouth curled in the slightest of smiles, as if I amused him. “So how can I help you, Miss . . . ?”

  “Mrs.,” I said, probably too quickly. “Kate Connor.” I drew myself up to my full height. “I need a trainer.” I went into more detail, explaining that I wanted some one-on-one training in addition to a class that Allie and I (and Mindy) could take together. I pointed the girls out to him, and they immediately blushed and tittered, then finally turned back to the wall again, as if the pictures were the most fascinating thing ever. Apparently, I’d been right—Cutter was a hottie.

  I expected him to rattle off a list of class times. Instead, he said, “Someone stalking you?”

  Not a question I’d been expecting, and I grappled for an answer, obviously not finding a good one since I blurted out, “Not exactly.”

  He laughed. “Is that like being a little bit pregnant?”

  I stared at him, trying to decide if he was an obnoxious jerk or a charming rogue.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, as if reading my mind. He grinned, all white teeth and charm. “You get used to me.”

  About that, I believed him. Cutter seemed like the kind of guy who would grow on you, and I followed as he started across the room toward a heavy oak desk covered with papers. The other parents and students had left, leaving just the four of us in the studio. “So do I get the story?” he asked as he walked. “Or do you like the role of mysterious suburban beauty?”

  (I should point out that I’m not naïve. He was a cute guy—amendment, a hot guy—running a martial arts studio less than a mile from the entrance to one of the nicer San Diablo neighborhoods. Of course he sucked up to the local moms. If he didn’t, some other instructor would be teaching the neighborhood tots to kick and lunge and jab. I knew all that, and yet I still perked up a bit at the “beauty” comment. There’s a lesson in there somewhere, but at the moment, I wasn’t inclined to look for it.)

  He turned and looked at me, silently prompting me to answer his question.

  “Years ago I used to be pretty good at this stuff,” I said, as if it was no big deal. “I realized how out of practice I am, and I want a refresher. And someone to train with.”

  “And your daughters?”

  “Daughter,” I said. “And her best friend.” I shrugged. “I can’t always be there to watch their backs.” I couldn’t help the edge in my voice. If he noticed, he didn’t show it.

  “Fair enough,” he said. “I don’t have any more classes today,” he said. “Why don’t you show me what you’ve got?”

  “Oh,” I said stupidly. I looked at my watch. I’d expected to just run down the formalities today. And I wasn’t that excited about the idea of showing Cutter what I had in front of Allie. “I don’t think that’s such a good—”

  “Just dump your things over there.” He pointed to the far wall. “Hey, girls,” he called. “Come on over here for a minute. Your mom and I have a little demonstration for you.”

  “Cutter,” I hissed.

  “What? You’re going to be taking classes with your kid. Don’t tell me you’re embarrassed to fight in front of her. That’s gonna make class a little cumbersome.”

  “Fine.” I glared at him again, feeling a bit like we were having a marital spat. My fights with Stuart just never involved actual fighting. “We’ll spar.” There really wasn’t any reason not to. I’d get a feel for his skills, and I figured I could tone my own skills down a bit for Allie’s sake. Besides, Cutter was right. Allie would get the full sense of what Mom could do soon enough.

  As the girls sat cross-legged at the edge of the mat, I headed toward the wall to drop off my purse and shoes like Cutter had suggested. The studio walls were mirrored, so I have no excuse for not seeing him coming. All I knew was that a split second after I passed him, he grabbed me around the waist, one hand going over my mouth to prevent me from screaming.

  What the hell?

  I could hear Allie yelling in the background, but I couldn’t focus on her. All thoughts had faded from my head, replaced only with a deep desire to nail Cutter’s sorry ass. I wasn’t thinking, I was just doing—and I’ll admit it felt good.

  I got both my hands on his one over my mouth, then tugged downward, managing to sink my teeth into the soft flesh beside his thumb. As I did that, I twisted, but his arm held fast around my waist despite his howl of protest. I slammed my left arm back, leading with my elbow, and caught him just under the rib cage. He exhaled with a whoof, and his arm loosened just enough for me to twist to the side, hook my leg under his, and send him sprawling backward onto the mat.

  “Mom! Mom! Wow, Mom, that was awesome!”

  A split second later I was straddling him, my hands tight around his neck, thumbs against his windpipe. “What do you think you’re doing?” I asked as Mindy and Allie raced toward us.

  Blood pounded in my ears, and although I wanted to twist around and flash a reassuring smile at my daughter, I couldn’t quite manage. All of my attention was still focused on Cutter. “Why did you jump me?” I demanded.

  “You said you used to be good,” he said. I could feel the tremor of his vocal cords beneath my hands. “I just wanted to see how good. Sorry, I should have asked.”

  “Yes, you should have.” I was being tested a lot lately, and I didn’t much like it. So far I’d done better defending myself than I’d expected. For that, at least, I gave myself Brownie points.

  “Are you gonna get off him, Mrs. Connor?”

  “Why should she?” Allie answered. “She totally nailed him. That was so awesome.”

  “Pretty awesome,” Cutter said, agreeably. “Not that this isn’t cozy, but if she got off me, maybe we could show you two a few more maneuvers.”

  “Will you, Mom?”

  “Not today, hon,” I said. My adrenaline rush was fading, replaced by the keen awareness that I was sitting on the chest of one very good-looking man. At least, I hoped he was a man. At the moment I was leaving nothing to chance.

  “Oh, come on, Mom!”

  “Sorry, kid. We have to get to the grocery store next.”

  “Oh, good,” Cutter said. “A reprieve.”

  I made a face as Mindy leaned over us. “Can you teach us how to do that? Flip guys, I mean.”

  “Sure, kiddo. That’s why we’re taking classes, remember?”

  Allie circled me and Cutter, her finger pressed to her mouth, her expression serious. “I dunno, Mom. Should we take lessons from him? Maybe we should find someone better.”

  “Oh, for crying out—” Cutter began. “Your mom definitely knows how to defend herself. I promise I can teach you girls the same thing.”

  “Hmmm,” Allie said. I tried to hide my amusement as she turned to Mindy. “What do you think?”

  Mindy shrugged. “He’s got all sorts of awards and stuff hanging on the back wall. He’ll probably be okay.”

  “Tough consumers,” Cutter said. “Not that this isn’t fun—you sitting on me, I mean—but do you think I could get up now?” He met my eyes, his dark with amusement and something else I wasn’t inclined to examine too closely. “Or we could just stay like this indefinitely.”

  “Very funny.” I climbed off of him, but stayed at the ready, standing over him while he looked up, bemused, from a prone position. The truth was, I did need him alone. Just not for that reason. Demon-testing was not for the faint of heart. Neither was it for my daughter to see. “Girls, run over to 7-Eleven and get me a soda, would you?”

  “A soda?” Mindy repeated.

  “She just wants to get rid of us,” Allie said. “She’s going to chew him out.”

&nb
sp; “Smart kid,” I said. “I’ll meet you two outside in a minute.”

  “Alone at last,” Cutter said as soon as the door shut behind the girls.

  I glared at him.

  “Hey, a beautiful woman just laid me out flat. All I’ve got left is my sense of humor.”

  I had to admit that, on the whole, he was being a pretty good sport. “You spooked me,” I said simply.

  “I guess so. So how long before you get unspooked and quit looking at me like that?”

  A very good question. I suppose he could have been a demon, lying in wait in the off chance I decided to train at Victor-cum-Cutter’s studio—but I had to admit the odds were slim. Of course, three days ago I would have said the odds of a demon catapulting himself through my window were nil.

  I didn’t intend to take chances.

  My purse was still looped over my shoulder, and now I stuck one hand inside so I could rummage in its depths. I found the vial of holy water and managed to open it one-handed. With my hand still inside the purse, I drenched my hand (not to mention my checkbook, pens, makeup, and wallet). “Come here,” I said.

  He squinted at me, but complied, and as soon as he was close enough, I reached out and patted his cheek with my damp hand. Nothing happened. (Okay, that’s not exactly true. Cutter muttered a few obscenities and asked the room in general if I was a psychopath.)

  I backed off. “Sorry about that.”

  I expected him to tell me to get out of his studio. Instead, he just wiped the water off his face with the back of his hand and stared at me. “Any chance you’ll tell me what that was about?”

  “Any chance you’ll train with me?” I shot back. “Or teach my daughter’s class?” I hoped he would. Now that I knew he wasn’t a demon, I had to admit I liked the guy. He had gumption, and he didn’t mind (too much) that a woman had bested him. He was also conveniently located near my house, and, as an added benefit, he was easy on the eyes (yes, I know, I’m shallow).

  “Lady, you don’t look like you need the training.”

  “I do,” I insisted. “My reflexes are better than I thought, but my instincts are all off. I should have realized you were coming. You never should have got your hand around my mouth. It took me way too long to bring you down. And to top it all off, my whole body feels sore and bruised.”

  “From laying me out?”

  I made a noncommittal noise. I was hardly going to tell him I’d been in three fights in so many days. Allie might be impressed by my ability to bring down attacking martial arts instructors, but that was a long way from laying waste to demons. I needed to be at the top of my game, and I wasn’t. Not yet. “I’m not in the shape I need to be,” I said with a shrug. Simple as that.

  “Need to be,” he repeated. “For what?”

  “For me.” Fighting demons is only part skill and strength, the rest is confidence. My reflexes might still be there, hiding just under the surface, but until my head believed that, I was vulnerable. “I just need to know I can do it.”

  In the end I’m not sure if Cutter agreed because I’d nailed him, because he believed I was sincere about getting back in sparring shape, or because he thought I was a (somewhat dangerous) nut he had to humor. Honestly, I didn’t much care. I’d come to pencil in times, and I was walking away with a sparring schedule for me (nine-thirty a.m., every day until I cried uncle) and a Wednesday/Friday afternoon class for me, Allie, and Mindy.

  Mission accomplished. One more item crossed off my to-do list.

  Of course, I’d ended up talking with Cutter way too long. (I chalked it up to male insecurity. As we were filling out the necessary paperwork, he launched into his résumé, telling me about his military service, along with the myriad awards and accolades he’d received over the years at various martial arts tournaments. I’ll admit, the guy sounded more than qualified.)

  I found the girls outside of 7-Eleven, sucking down Popsicles (“the fruit ones have like no calories”) and describing to each other in minute detail how I’d managed to get Cutter down on the mat.

  “That was so stellar, Mrs. Connor,” Mindy said. “I don’t think my mom could ever do anything that cool.”

  “My mom kicks butt,” Allie said.

  “Allie.” I used my Shocked Mom voice, but I’ll confess to a secret thrill—my kid thought I was cool! “Okay, everyone in the van.”

  As the girls and I got back in the van, the digital clock read 3:35. I confirmed that with a glance at my watch (as if somewhere I’d hidden an extra half-hour), but apparently all my various timepieces were in sync.

  So much for my supermom routine. There was no way I could get the stuff for the cocktail party and get home in time to meet the glazier. Damn.

  I debated my options as I pulled out onto Rialto, still not sure if I was heading to Laura’s, home, or the grocery store. I pulled out my cell phone, punched in Laura’s speed-dial number, and stopped at a red light.

  Her machine kicked on and I cursed out loud. I waited through the beep. “Laura? Pick up. It’s me.”

  I heard the clatter of the phone and then Laura’s breathless “Hey. Sorry. I was changing a diaper.”

  “I’ve got Mindy and Allie,” I said. “But could I add one more dessert to our tally?”

  I swear I could hear her smile. “What do you need?”

  I explained about the glass and asked if she and Timmy could finish out their playdate at my house.

  “Playdate, huh?”

  I cleared my throat, and she laughed.

  “Sure. No problem.”

  “I owe you,” I said.

  “You have no idea,” she said agreeably.

  That task accomplished, I turned into a parking lot and reemerged on Rialto heading the opposite direction toward Gelson’s (the kind of high-end grocery store where after you valet park, you might actually spy a celebrity—or, more likely, the celebrity’s butler).

  This is not my usual grocery store.

  Once inside, I bemoaned the fact that we weren’t rolling in the dough. If an overflowing bank account meant that I could shop regularly in a place like this, I might actually learn to cook a few meals other than the old standbys like meat loaf and chicken with rice.

  The girls peeled off, ostensibly to check out the produce section, but I expected they’d end up at the dessert counter. I continued on to the back of the store, where a fifty-something woman in a hairnet asked what she could do for me today. I wasn’t shy, immediately revealing my sad tale of woe (I’m a terrible cook and was expected to host a cocktail party in approximately three hours).

  Lorraine (I caught a glimpse of her name tag) rose to the challenge, and less than twenty minutes later I was in the checkout lane writing a check for a clump of caviar (and the accompanying sour cream and little potato puffs on which to dab it), foie gras, some fancy crackers that put my usual Saltines to shame, cheese puffs, spinach dip in a carved-out bowl of bread, champagne grapes, and my old standby Brie. (A social faux pas since I’d served it last Friday, but I figured I’d survive the shame). I also had a few bottles of wine (recommended by the store’s sommelier), the basic supplies for various flavored martinis, and two outrageously large slices of chocolate cake that the girls dubbed their reward for surviving the first day of high school.

  After writing a check roughly the size of our mortgage, I followed the clerk out to the van and watched as he loaded my purchases, all the while thinking that I could get used to this. A few minutes later we were turning into Laura’s driveway, and I was feeling more than a little pleased with myself.

  “Your mom will be back soon,” I told Mindy, who didn’t look like it much mattered to her. “And you,” I said to Allie, “aren’t staying overnight. Come back home by ten.”

  “Sure, Mom.”

  I waited to make sure the girls got inside all right, then circled the block, heading toward my own house. I parked in the garage, then grabbed a bag before climbing out. I backtracked down the driveway to fetch the morning paper, then headed
inside. Laura met me at the door, my phone pressed to her ear.

  She held up a finger as I pushed inside, signaling for me to wait. “It’s Stuart,” she said.

  I took the phone from her, cradling it between my shoulder and ear as I dumped my bag by the refrigerator. Timmy had heard me come in, and now he was racing to me, his cries of “Momma!” drowning out pretty much every other sound.

  “What, hon?” I yelled. “Say again?” I bent down to collect my son in a bear hug, and he immediately reached for the phone. “Timmy talk! Timmy talk!”

  “Kate?”

  “Go ahead.” I wrestled the phone back from Tim with a stern “No, Mommy’s talking.” To my husband, I said, “I’m listening.”

  “I was just calling to check in. You got my note? Six-thirty?”

  “We’re all set,” I said. “I just got back from the grocery store.” Behind me, I heard the door open and close, and I turned to see Laura traipsing in with the last of my bags. I mouthed a silent thank you.

  “You’re the best,” he said. “I’ll be home by six to help you out.”

  “Sounds good . . .” I trailed off, looking at my watch as I shifted Timmy’s weight in my arms. I was thinking about all I needed to do in order to get me and the house ready for company, and wondering if I shouldn’t make Stuart come home at five. Too late. Before I got the words out, he’d said the requisite “I love you” and hung up.

  Great.

  “Lady, you got dry rot.”

  And it just kept getting better and better.

  I’d moved through the kitchen, and now I looked up to see a scarecrow of a man in coveralls and a baseball cap picking at the window frame with what looked like a putty knife.

  “Oh,” I said. He kept looking at me, and so I said the only other thing that came to mind. “I’m sorry?”

  He exhaled (loudly). “Yeah, well, what do you want me to do about it?”

  “You talking, Momma?” Timmy said. “You talking on the phone?”

  “No, sweetie. Mommy’s done on the phone.”