Renegade - Kristin Coley Page 0,4
decision. I jogged after him, not missing his long exhale. “What is it, Sloan?”
“Now I’m Sloan?” I snipped, glancing both ways out of habit as we crossed the street. Traffic was almost nonexistent in Friendly and the speed limit was a whopping twenty five miles per hours down Main Street, but I still checked, even as Noah took the outside, automatically protecting me.
“Is there a reason you’re following me?” He inquired, reaching in his pocket for his keys.
“Have you seen Clutch yet?” I asked bluntly. He paused, glancing down at me, his face expressionless, but finally he shook his head in the negative. “How did he get out so early?” I persisted, no one having been able to answer the question of how Clutch had been paroled three years into a twelve year federal sentence, something that should have been impossible.
His lips compressed and he gave a tight shake of his head. “He’s got friends in high places?” He replied, shoulders lifting and then dropping as he reached for the door handle on the police cruiser.
“That’s it?” I squeaked in disbelief, having been certain Noah would have known the answer. “That’s all you’ve got? Friends in high places?”
“I don’t know what you want me to tell you, Sloan. I don’t know how he slipped a sentence like that. It should have been impossible. Why you think Johnny was so infuriated when he took the fall for that chick in the Aces?”
“I knew he was upset. We all were,” I stressed. “I just thought you’d heard something.”
“I wish I’d had.” He looked at the ground, keys jingling as he bounced his hand and I crossed my arms over my chest, my next question catching in my throat.
“You don’t think he – ”
“NO,” Noah answered harshly, not even letting me finish as he spun around, getting right in my face. “Don’t even think it. Clutch isn’t a snitch. He would never flip on the club.”
“Not ours,” I hurriedly replied, shaking my own head at the idea. “The Aces.”
Noah was already shaking his head. “Nah, not Clutch. He wouldn’t have taken the fall if he was going to turn around and narc on them.”
“Yeah, but,” I protested and Noah interrupted.
“No buts, Sloan. You know that’s not Clutch.”
“I know,” I repeated for the millionth time. “I’m just saying there are questions.”
“And we’ll ask Clutch when he gets here,” Noah stated, ending the conversation as he yanked open the door to his cruiser. “Until then, plan your party and stop asking dangerous questions,” he said curtly, his gaze drilling into me until I lowered my eyes, reminded he was a cop and not a member of the club. The air left his lungs in a rush and my gaze flickered up. “I’m not trying to be a bastard, Sloan. I know how the Rebels work and I know Clutch. He wouldn’t screw the club.” He paused. “But I also know there can’t be any questions, not like that, not where the wrong people could hear, ya know?” I nodded, having received the same lecture from Creed. “Some wonder where his loyalty is at.” My head jerked up, surprised, and he glanced away. “They wonder if he’s coming back a Southern Rebels or an Ace.”
“No.” The word was automatic and Noah lifted his hands as if in peace. “Clutch is a Rebel and a Hayes,” I said tightly. “There’s no question about that.”
“I’m just repeating what I’ve heard,” Noah replied and his mouth twisted in a grimace. “Be ready, because there will be some who resent him coming back.”
Chapter Three
Clutch
I eased the old Blazer to a stop a few houses down the street, knowing anyone who saw it would recognize the dull orange color. I shifted into Park as I stared at the neat little house I’d called home for a few brief months. Bright pink roses dotted the front flower bed, Kara’s request since pink was the absolute prettiest color ever, and the grass was neatly cut, probably due to one of my brothers or maybe it had been Hank.
I knew I shouldn’t be here. Ronnie had made it more than clear we were over when I got sent down, but I couldn’t make myself leave. A sigh escaped me as I leaned my head back against the brown vinyl headrest, my gaze tracking all the little changes that had happened over three years. Someone had replaced the mailbox and it looked like she’d hung a hummingbird feeder. There was a hot pink bike propped