Scene right before the blow out in Orlando

Walker dove inside the hotel gift shop and sidled up to a gray-haired saleswoman with bejeweled reading glassed perched on the end of her nose. “Yes, ma’am,” he whispered. “I’d like to buy some condoms.”

The woman arched a brow and gave him a schoolmaster look over the rim of her glasses. “How many?” she asked

He gave her the same look over the rim of his glasses. “How many do you have?”

She made a big show out of counting the boxes one-by-one, much louder than necessary.

He slapped his card on the counter. “I’ll take ‘em all.”

“You’re not the only one in this hotel who wants to have safe sex tonight, you know?”

He gritted his teeth. She was tap dancing on his last nerve. “However many you can spare, then.”

“Lubricated, ribbed, or plain?”

“I can handle the lubrication myself.”

“Right.” She snorted. “The lubricated condoms are for her pleasure, not yours.”

Callie was in her room probably planning his demise. “Ma’am, if you don’t mind, I’m in a hurry.” He made the mistake of tapping his fingers on the counter.

The woman purposely moved in slower motion, stacking the boxes one at a time, then ringing up every box with a judgmental smirk. Slower than a stampede of turtles, she needlessly wrapped each in tissue paper first, and then loaded them all in a plastic bag. When she dropped his credit card and typed the wrong goddamn numbers into the machine, he about lost his mind. A year later, she handed him the bag.

He ripped it out of her hands and charged out the door. “As soon as I’m done with this”—he held up the bag—”I’m gonna write a nice, long, review about your service. Sales tip: when a  man buys condoms, he doesn’t have all day to play games.”

Nicole Archer's super secret special stuff

Yay! You've subscribed.