Keeping What's His: Tate (Porter Brothers Trilogy Book 1) by Jamie Begley Page A

print.
    “Why didn’t you stay and tell the sheriff?”
    Tate gave her a look that plainly said he doubted her intelligence. “I don’t know. Maybe it was because that fucker had a restraining order against me. With a shotgun with my prints all over it, I don’t plan on being one of those dumb fucks who spends years in prison, trying to prove his innocence.”
    Sutton set her groceries on the counter, careful to make sure they were away from the blood. Then she took out her phone, but Tate jerked it from her hand.
    “Who in the fuck do you think you’re calling?”
    “Give that back. You need an ambulance.”
    “Didn’t you hear a word I just said? I am not going to prison. I didn’t kill that piece of shit.”
    “You can tell the sheriff what happened—”
    Tate snorted. “Do you think they’re going to believe me? Everyone in town knows I hated that drunk. I’m not going anywhere until I find out who set me up.”
    Sutton’s mouth dropped open. “You can’t stay here. You’re bleeding all over the place.”
    “Then patch me up.” Tate staggered to her couch with the dish cloth pressed to his chest.
    “I don’t know how.”
    “Boil some water. You have any disinfectant?”
    Sutton could see it was useless to argue with him. The stubborn man would bleed to death if she didn’t help him.
    Throwing him an irritated glance, she went into the bathroom, searching through the cabinets and finding hydrogen peroxide and some gauze. Carrying both back to the living room, she went to the kitchen to place a kettle of water on to boil.
    “Help me get this off.” Tate was trying to pull off his shirt, which was drenched in blood.
    Setting down the disinfectant and gauze on the end table by the couch, she then helped Tate take off his shirt. His face was pasty white, and he was covered in a sheen of sweat when they finished.
    “I’m going to throw up.”
    Hastily, Sutton ran to the kitchen, grabbing a bowl she had set out to pour the hot water into. Running back, she managed to place it in Tate’s hands before he vomited.
    She went back into the kitchen, opening one of the kitchen drawers where she found a clean dishcloth and dampened it with cold water. She went back to Tate who was still heaving into the large bowl. Placing the cloth on the back of his neck, she sat down next to him on the couch, helping him to hold the bowl.
    “You have to let me call an ambulance. You’re going into shock.”
    “No, just give me a second.” He managed to lift his head, his hand dragging the cloth from the back of his neck to press it against his face.
    “Finished?”
    Tate nodded weakly, leaning back on the couch.
    “At least let me call Greer or Dustin?”
    “No,” he refused. “The cops will be waiting to follow them. Call Rachel. She can fix me up, and Cash can sneak her in without being seen.”
    Sutton immediately took the phone Tate handed her, pressing the number Cash had given her.
    “Hello?”
    “Cash, this is Sutton.”
    “What’s up?”
    “I have Tate at my house. He’s hurt. He needs Rachel.”
    “Tell him he’s shit out of luck. I’m not letting my wife get involved with the mess he’s in. Knox has already come here, looking for him. He should turn himself in.”
    “He didn’t do it, Cash. He said someone is pinning it on him, and you and I both know no one in town will believe he’s innocent.” Sutton couldn’t understand why she was coming to Tate’s defense.
    “Fuck!” She heard him talk to someone in the background, and then Cash’s voice came back on the line. “Give me five. I’ll see what I can do.”
    “Thanks, Cash.”
    The line was disconnected.
    “He’s pretty mad,” she commented.
    “What’s new?” Tate grunted, shifting on the couch.
    She stood up and went into her bathroom to dispose of the vomit then grabbed a pillow, taking it back to the living room where she laid it down on the arm of the couch.
    “Lie down,” she ordered.
    He fell down more than he lay