Page 22 of Worth the Fall

“Excuse me, where are the tampons?” Grant asks the service clerk at the front of the store. Some teenage boys waiting in line snicker, and the young clerk’s face immediately turns bright red as he stutters a response. “Better yet, we’re in an emergency situation here. A ninety mile an hour type of emergency. Can you get on the PA and ask one of your associates to bring up a box for us so this young lady doesn’t have to search them out.”

Oh. My. God. Is he seriously going to do this?

Yes, he is.

That irritation I was hoping for just hit full force.

“I can get them myself,” I grit out between clenched teeth.

“Oh, no need to. He’s got it under control.” He lifts his chin to the cashier, who looks less than thrilled to be asked to do this. “Go on,” he urges the clerk.

“Can I get some assistance to the front please?” the clerk asks, his teenage voice cracking on the overhead speakers. “I need a box of tampons brought up.”

“Tell them it’s an emergency,” Grant says as the kid looks over to me and then down to my pelvis before realizing what he’s doing and snapping his head up, more flustered than ever.

“It’s an emergency.” His voice booms over the PA system and draws the eyes of some of the customers waiting at the photo counter.

“Thank you.” Grant flashes a huge grin his way. “Oh, wait. What brand do you like, Emerson?”

“You’re joking, right?” I sputter.

“Only if you’re joking.” He lifts his eyebrows as he throws down the gauntlet to see if I’m going to come clean or keep lying. The problem is that I think if I don’t continue, he might really haul me off to jail to prove a point. “I don’t think generic will do for such a dire situation. Brand?”

“Tampax,” I say defiantly.

“Tampax,” he relays to the clerk, whose cheeks are burning brighter with each second that passes. When the clerk continues to stare at Grant as if he’s crazy, which I’m beginning to think he is, Grant points to the phone in his hand. “Go on. Let them know so they don’t bring the wrong one and then we have to start this whole process all over again.”

The clerk goes to protest and then realizes that it’s in his best interest to relay the message. “To the associate in the, er, woman’s aisle . . . please make it Tampax.”

I stare at Grant and his smug grin and know there is no way I’m going to let him get away with this. Funny thing is, I’m a woman, tampons don’t embarrass me . . . but I know something that sure as hell will embarrass him.

“Are you still having that problem?” I loudly ask Grant, getting the blank look from him I was banking on.

“Problem?”

“Yes. You know . . .” I cringe and give him a sympathetic look before turning to the clerk. “While your associate is at it, can they grab one more thing for Officer Malone?”

The clerk’s eyes widen. “Can’t he go and get it himself?”

“No. He can’t. He has a suspect in the car, and department policy says he can’t be more than one hundred feet away from him at all times.” I push Grant back as he tries to step forward and interrupt. “Please?”

“Yeah. Sure.” The clerk looks at Grant and then back to me, uncertain how he became the ball in our ping-pong match.

“He needs his Viagra.”

“Viagra?” The clerk’s voice is suddenly soprano.

“Emers—”

“Don’t be embarrassed, Grant. A lot of guys have trouble getting it up.” I pat Grant’s arm and return the smug smile as the muscle in his jaw clenches.

“Em,” he warns.

“Viagra,” I reiterate to the clerk ignoring the hand Grant squeezes on my bicep. “He’s really embarrassed. I mean I wore lacy lingerie, high heels . . . everything, and he still couldn’t get hard.”

If the clerk’s cheeks could get any redder, they would. “Th-that’s a prescription. The phar-pharmacy⁠—”

“Emers—”