Free A Demon Bound (Imp Book 1) by Debra Dunbar

the gym. It’s packed because the instructor looks like a Latin god. Everyone loves to get in their early–morning eye candy, and they desperately try to attract his attention with their spasmodic hip thrusts. I try to never miss the Zumba class since I believe comedy is a great way to start your week.
    This class, I positioned myself amid a group of tittering soccer moms. It was great fun, although I had to hold myself back from turning it into a giant mosh pit slam dance. Last time I did that, they kicked me out for a month. Today, I enjoyed watching an eighty year old lady — with a cane no less — shimmy, her boobs flying like weapons around her waist.
    After the class, while everyone else lined up to flutter their eyelashes and thank the hot instructor in rusty high school Spanish, I headed out and did my real workout. There was a flyer for a Judo class and I fantasized for a moment about taking it and beating everyone into a bloody mess. I’m so competitive though that I know I’d be sparring and lose control and pop someone’s head off. That would be a lot of fun, but it wouldn’t be a good thing for my continued life in this realm. No Judo for me.
    I was joining Michelle for lunch and meeting her at an end–of–lease walk through, so I actually showered and pulled on the clean shorts and tank top from my bag. I just watched while she inspected the oven, fridge and carpet. I can’t remember the last time I did a walk through. Usually Michelle only called me in if she thought the tenant might get violent. This guy was harmless. Short skinny balding guy on government disability supplements. He was moving in with his daughter. His eyes flickered to me every few seconds, and if I moved, he jumped in alarm. It was kind of funny actually, so I made a point of moving a lot.
    “The toilet paper holder came off the wall, but I put a new one on,” the tenant pointed out, practically shaking with anxiety. Did he think we were going to yank it off the wall and shove it up his ass? We just wanted a decent apartment and money, not his personal pain and suffering. Sheesh.
    We ended up deducting a carpet cleaning and some dry wall repair from his security deposit. No one gets out for free. We’d find something to charge even Martha Stewart for. Hot glue mark or excess faux stained glass on the lighting fixtures. The guy didn’t argue, and in fact thanked Michelle and me profusely as Michelle handed him a check and collected the keys.
    “Mexican?” Michelle asked as we locked up and walked toward the commercial area of downtown. This apartment was actually in a decent neighborhood close to the trendy eateries. I think I could get fifty more a month for it now.
    “No way. I need a salad or I won’t be able to shit for a week,” I replied.
    “Lovely visual there, Samantha.”
    I got my salad. Michelle had a ruben and enough fries to feed a small nation. I don’t know where she put it. She always ate hearty, never seemed to work out, and was thin as an international model. I guess good genetics and height made all the difference. Michelle and I discussed work, as we usually did on our lunches. We debated trying a new plumbing contractor, talked about upcoming leases and who might renew versus who might move out. We commiserated about the tenant who was always losing his keys. We charged him for the copies at an exorbitant rate, but keeping spare sets and having someone run them over at very inconvenient hours was wearing on us. I wondered if one of those numerical locks would help. He’d probably forget the number, but at least we could just tell him over the phone rather than having to run over there in the middle of the night. Maybe we could still charge him each time he called for the code. Finally, as we were finishing up, I approached the topic I really wanted to discuss.
    “I’ve got a relationship issue and want your advice,” I said.
    Michelle stared. We seldom discussed personal stuff. I didn’t even