Hot, Bothered & Bitchy
Chapter thirty-four
Eslin
Ican’t believe I let them talk me into this.
Me, a grown-ass woman, dressed up for a Halloween party like I don’t have real bills and a reputation to maintain.
But here I am—Poetic Justice braids swinging, high-waisted jeans hugging all the right places, black crop top just shy of modest, and yes, I’m even chewing gum like Janet.
With Bixa Beauty’s Nude Margaret Monroe Lip Whip on my lips, I know I look good.
The Supper Club is even more stunning than the whispers promised.
I’ve heard stories of what goes down here, who slips in and out under the radar, what kind of secrets live between the shadows of velvet curtains, low-lit lounges and private suites.
But I’ve never dared to step foot inside.
Not because I couldn’t, but because I wasn’t sure I could walk out the same.
There’s something about this place. The sharp scent of money and musk. The way the light cuts across crystal glassware. The way the walls seem to hum with the kind of indulgence I’ve spent most of my life convincing myself I didn’t need.
But tonight the air feels different. Electric. Like something’s about to happen—something I didn’t see coming. The kind of night that doesn’t ask for permission. That doesn't wait for you to feel ready. The kind that pulls you in before you can remind yourself to stay away.
It’s the same hum I felt that night in Vegas with Grant. The night we didn’t sleep together, but still he somehow managed to ruin every other man for me without even touching me like that.
And still, for some reason, instead of turning and walking out, I step in. All the way.
“Girl, you are killing that Janet Jackson look!” Tatum calls out as she struts over, two drinks in hand. She passes one to me with a wink.
“Thank you! I see you went full Foxy Brown tonight?” I say, eyeing her up and down in her leather and gold.
“Original Pam Grier, baby,” she grins. “She’s my spirit animal.”
I laugh. “Why am I not even a little bit surprised?”
We take a beat to take it all in—the crowd, the music, the vibe. “You really did an amazing job with this,” I say, glancing around at the luxurious Halloween setup. “But what made you choose this place?”
Tatum smirks. “One of the owners owed me a favor, and I figured, why not go big? What other team is throwing a party like this? It’s sexy, it’s bold—”
“It’s so you,” I cut in, and we both crack up because even though we haven’t known each other long, I’ve got her number. Wild, creative, always down to stir the pot.
She takes a sip of her drink, eyes scanning the room. “You seen Marlow yet?”
“Not yet,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Last I heard, she and Declan were fighting again over a costume or something.”
Tatum huffs. “Oh, the newlyweds are fighting again. Shocker.”
“Right,” I say with a smile, keeping my tone light. “Even if the whole thing isn’t real, I think Declan’s just tired of keeping their relationship a secret.”
It’s more than that. A lot more than that from what Declan has revealed in our sessions.
But the fact that he’s tired of being a secret is the only thing I can say since Marlow gave us that much herself.
But even that little sliver of truth feels like walking a tightrope.
I’m carrying too much—truths that aren’t mine to share, feelings I’ve buried so deep I can’t tell where they end and the lies begin.
Tatum nods slowly, swirling the drink in her hand.
“Yeah,” she says thoughtfully. “I think Declan really believes that if they stop hiding—if they go public—Marlow might finally drop the armor and let something real happen. Because as long as she has to keep it a secret, she’ll never let herself feel it. ”
She doesn’t know it, but Tatum is absolutely right.
I shake my head, exhaling a breath as I scan the crowd. “Honestly, I’m shocked one of them hasn’t committed murder yet.”
“Or mounted the other in one of the supply closets at work,” Tatum says with a wicked grin.
I lift my drink in mock salute. “Right? Forget murder—I can’t believe sex hasn’t happened. We’re both down a hundred bucks and for what? So she can stay hot, bothered and bitchy?”
Tatum leans in, dropping her voice. “You don’t think she’s lying, do you? About not sleeping with him?”
“Please,” I scoff. “Marlow’s way too wound up to be getting dicked down on the regular.”
“Touché,” Tatum laughs.
I tilt my head, narrowing my eyes at her. “And where’s your date tonight?”
She grins and waves a perfectly manicured hand like she’s brushing off a speck of dust. “Oh, honey. I am not a ‘bring sand to the beach’ type of girl. I like to see what’s on the buffet before I commit to an entrée, if you know what I mean.”
I snort, nearly choking on my drink. “Oh, I know what your nasty self means.”
One thing I learned about Tatum right away?
She doesn’t do filters. She speaks her mind, owns her space, and lets her freak flag fly without a second thought.
Her Black and Asian roots give her a kind of boldness that’s rare—fearless but intentional, sharp but deeply rooted.
Especially for a Black woman in a world that keeps asking us to shrink.
She’s the head of marketing for a major sports organization, walks into boardrooms like she owns them, and doesn’t waste her time with boys who play games. That kind of confidence is magnetic. It makes me respect her—and if I’m being honest, maybe even want to be her—just a little.
Tatum and I are nearly doubled over in laughter when it happens again.
That shift. The one that always gives him away before he even speaks.
The air tightens. My skin prickles just before…
“Good evening, ladies.”
Grant fucking Mills.
“Good evening, Mr. Mills!” Tatum sings. “We were just talking about your daughter!”
“Good evening, Mr. Mills,” I echo, softly. More careful, more controlled.
He gives a polite nod. “Please, call me Grant.”
Tatum is still the one talking—but Grant isn’t looking at her. His eyes are on me. Only me. And the rest of the room might as well disappear.
I see it hit him when he notices the costume. His gaze lingers, slowly taking it all in before his voice drops just above a whisper. “I loved that movie.”
I make an effort to chew my gum. “Me too,” I say, something soft and unsteady in my tone. “I used to watch Poetic Justice every day after school. Might’ve even started in middle school,” I add, the words slipping out before I can filter them.
Grant reaches up and takes the end of one of my braids between his fingers. His thumb brushes it—gentle, like it might break.
“The outfit doesn’t do you justice,” he murmurs. “But I like it on you all the same.”
His voice curls around me like smoke. I feel Tatum shift beside me, and just like that, Grant snaps back into himself—realizing we’re not alone. Realizing we’re in public.
“I…well, I’d better find my colleagues,” he says, already retreating, voice clipped and casual, like he didn’t just touch me like a secret.
Tatum grabs my arm like she’s holding onto a live wire. “O. M. G.”
I whip my head toward her. “What?”
“I saw the way that man just looked at you!”
I make a beeline for the bar, hoping distance will calm the thrum under my skin. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
Tatum chases me. “You are a damn lie, Eslin Saunders. That man wants you. Like, wants you, bad.”
Just as we reach the bar, she plants both hands on my shoulders and spins me to face her. “Do you have a thing for him too? Oh. My. God. Your best friend’s dad. Eslin, does Marlow know? Does—”
I slap my hand over her mouth. “Yes, he has a thing for me. Yes, I maybe kind of have a thing for him too, but it started before I knew who he was. Before he knew who I was.”
Tatum yanks my hand down. “Wait—what started? You slept with him?”
“No! And would you keep your voice down?”
I glance over my shoulder, paranoid someone’s eavesdropping. Then I lean in and tell her everything—about Las Vegas, the man I kissed, the secret I buried, and the very real problem named Grant Mills.
“And, no, Marlow absolutely does not know.”
“Girl! How are you even dealing with all that? I’d be going crazy holding all that in!”
Finally, someone close I can actually talk to.
My job demands I carry the weight of everyone else’s problems, tuck away their secrets, their shame, their fears.
But no one ever thinks to ask where I’m supposed to put mine.
And since I rarely have time to hand over a copay and sit across from someone with a framed degree on the wall, I don’t get much of a release valve.
Max is in Canada, buried in her own cocktail of chaos and bliss. And as happy as I am for her, it’s been harder than I thought—keeping all of this in, swallowing it whole.
Especially with Marlow.
She and I are getting closer every day. She’s becoming a real friend. Someone I trust. Someone I’d never want to hurt. Which makes all of this impossible.
So I let my guard down with Tatum. Just a little. Just enough. Because maybe, if I say it out loud—if I share this out loud—she can help me figure out how the hell I stop myself from falling for the one man who’s completely off-limits.
My best friend’s father.
I look up at Tatum, and for some inexplicable reason, a tear threatens to escape. I blink it back with a sharp breath and a forced smile. “How am I dealing with it?” I let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Hennessy. Neat, please?” I say to the bartender without looking away.
“Oh shit!” Tatum says, impressed by the drink order.
“I’m dealing with it by journaling, crying, avoiding—”
“Masturbating?” she throws in, soft and deadpan. It makes me laugh despite myself.
“Yes, actually. Lots and lots of that.”
Her expression shifts. Still light, but layered with concern. “But seriously, E... so that’s it? You two are just calling it, friends? And you’re okay with that?”