Page 8 of Kentrell

It didn’t press, didn’t speak, didn’t bump into me. But it was there. Silent. Watching. Following.

I slid to the next rack.

He followed.

I moved again. Same shit.

Alright.

I circled a mannequin, doubled back behind him, caught him off-guard. “Fuck is you doing?”

He chuckled slow—fake-ass calm—then raised his hands like he was the innocent one.

That shit had me hot.

“Aye, man—put yo fucking hands down,” I snapped. I didn’t need no scene. Folks might think I was robbing the nigga, andthatcouldn’t happen here.

He dropped them slow, that slick-ass smirk still on his face.

“I been trying to get in touch with you all week, Mr. Caldwell.”

The way he said my name made everything click.

“Malcolm.”

Not a question. Just facts. That voice matched the file. That smile matched the arrogance I imagined. And the nerve it took to pop up here? Bold as hell.

He extended a hand.

I didn’t take it.

Just stared.

Ready.

Waiting.

Because this wasn’t no introduction.

This was a warning.

"Attorney General Anderson… if I play my cards right."

That smug-ass smile stretched across his face as he gripped my hand. My shit went cold instantly. That uneasy twist in mygut from when Star first mentioned him calling her—it flared the fuck up. So thiswasthe muthafucka. He looked into me. Dug.

And I don’t do feds.

“Please, don’t shut me out,” he added, clocking the way I pulled my hand back like his skin was poison.

“What I need you for has nothing to do with that. But I could look out for you once I’m in office.”

His voice had that smooth, practiced pitch. ThatI’ve-shaken-hands-with-killers-and-choir-boystone. Cat-like smile still plastered on his face, like I was supposed to be impressed.

I wasn’t.

"I don't work with agents."

I turned my back on him, walking slow but steady. Letting him know I wasn’t scared—but Iwasdone. He trailed behind me like a bad decision I hadn’t made yet, still yappin'.

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