Page 36 of Kentrell

“And you holding yourself to the same standard?” she added.

Ah. Now I caught the angle.

“I don’t mind taking you on as a client,” she continued, real careful with her tone, “but there’s something I need to ask.”

“What.” Just like that—flat, cold, unmoved. I wanted her to feel that wall between us. She was trying to dig deep, poke around where she didn’t belong. But I wasn’t the one to unravel just because she blinked slow and asked pretty. She thought she had the upper hand with her title and her little clipboard of boundaries, but I had every intention of flipping the script—stripping her down till she didn’t remember what she was even trying to protect.

“Mr. Caldwell?” Her voice pulled me back, steady and a little more pointed this time. I could see it in her face—she wasn’t just playing around anymore.

“What do you do?”

“I’m an entrepreneur,” I said, letting the word hang just long enough to make her wonder.

“Of what sorts?” she pressed, leaning forward, trying to close the distance like that was gon’ get her the truth.

I smirked. “Just your friendly neighborhood business guy, ya feel me? Got my hands in a few... side projects.”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t smile either. Just stared like she already knew there was more, and I wasn’t ready to give it to her.

Good.

Let her work for it.

“Side projects?” she echoed, her tone still cool but probing. “So, you're not just some small-time property manager with a few local investments?”

She was baiting me—testing how slick I could be under pressure. I could see it in her eyes, the slight shift in her posture, the calculated pause between words. She’d clearly done her homework. Probably sniffed around Lex’s trail looking for dirt, hoping it would lead back to me. At best, all she’d find was the same recycled truth everyone else eventually uncovered: my daddy was a pimp. My mama? His bottom bitch. She’s sitting on 45 years for the murder of the man she used to call daddy and daddy used to call his prize. And me? I was the fallout—Kentrell Caldwell, son of a pimp and a prostitute.

If she thought that was the worst she could find, I almost wanted her to dig deeper. Let’s see how far that brilliant little attorney brain could go before she hit something she wasn’t ready for.

“Depends on how you see it,” I said, letting a slow smirk crawl across my face. “Let’s just say I specialize in... problem-solving.”

That made her squint a little, like she was trying to read through my bullshit. “Problem-solving? Like consultancy or something?”

“Something like that.” I leaned back, cool as ever. “I help people get rid of things they don’t want in their lives.”

“Obstacles,” she repeated, one brow lifting. “Like bad tenants… or more permanent issues?”

I chuckled, slow and deep. “We talking advanced customer service—real hands-on, no hang-ups.”

She studied me, arms folded tight. Still skeptical. Still hooked.

“And do you have a license for this customer service?” she asked, tongue in cheek.

“Nah, no license. Just talent,” I told her, my eyes fixed on her mouth now. “I’m good at making problems disappear. Smooth transitions. Clean exits. Satisfaction guaranteed.”

I let those words land heavy, slow and suggestive.

She caught the drift. Laughed, soft and dry, rolling her eyes to the side. “You’re full of it, Mr. Caldwell.”

“Probably,” I said, and bit into another chip. “But you still want to know more, don’t you?”

The way she looked at me—tight-lipped, but curious as hell—told me everything I needed to know.

“It’s part of my job,” she said, voice steady, but her eyes gave her away. “Getting to know my clients. Learning how best to handle them.”

I leaned back just enough to smirk. “That so?”

She nodded once, all proper.

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