Summer, Bellann - Paulie's Protector [The Men of the Crazy Angle Ranch 4] (Siren Publishing Classic ManLove)

by Bellann Summer

  “Tell me what’s wrong, Elliot. Let’s see if I can help.” Graham’s gentle, yet strong voice reassured Elliot and gave him hope. Graham was very good at helping those around him and the Crazy Angle was starting to become a place where people could come and heal.

  “Paulie has spent this last year running away from a stalker. I don’t even know the half of it, but he’s been forced to move multiple times and has gotten several restraining orders. He’s done everything he could to try to get the guy to leave him alone.” Elliot squeezed Graham’s hand tight. “A couple of days ago, the guy caught Paulie. He ended up in the hospital, in real bad shape. Paulie called me in a panic and said that he has to get out of town. He’s terrified the stalker could come into his room and try to take him away or kill him. I’ve got to do something to help him, Graham. He’s my best friend.” Elliot looked around the room wildly. It was almost like he could feel some of Paulie’s fear.

  Adam VanPeterson, the ranch foreman and one of Elliot’s lovers, walked into the office. A jet-black eyebrow rose when he saw that Elliot was upset and Graham holding his hand. “What’s going on?”

  “Paulie finally called back. He was at a hospital in Nebraska, and I was just asking Graham if he could come to the ranch,” Elliot replied. “He needs a place to heal and hide.”

  Adam looked at Graham. “What do you think, Graham? Elliot, Zaiden and I could catch the next flight out.”

  “Where am I catching a flight to?” Zaiden Moore walked into the room.

  Elliot’s other lover was tall, muscled and a redhead. And most of the time, Elliot had a hard time keeping his hands off the farmer and the foreman.

  “Elliot’s friend Paulie called back, and Elliot wants to bring him to the ranch. If Graham agrees, I thought between the three of us we could get him back here safely,” Adam said.

  “Sounds good,” Graham said. “Book a flight. I think it would be best if we put him in Elliot’s old rooms off the kitchen.”

  “Ah,” Elliot interrupted. “I sort of had a ticket waiting for Paul, and I think he’s in the air heading this way right now.”

  Chapter Two

  “You can do this,” Paul said to himself. The plane had just landed and all he had to do was somehow walk out of it and find Elliot. Elliot would take care of him. Carefully, he kept his hands pressed firmly against the towel that was hidden under his jacket, desperately trying to keep the blood seeping from the torn stitches from showing.

  Paul had woken up in the hospital to a mangled belly and chest that were screaming in agony. Right behind them, in second place on the agony scale, were his cut-to-shit legs and arms. He tried to take a breath and that only amped up the torment, forcing a deep groan through his lips that had a nurse immediately standing by the side of the bed.

  “You’re going to be okay, Mr. Weber. I’ve just put some pain medication into your IV. You should be feeling some relief very soon.” She continued. “Take a shallow breath, slow and easy. The doctors had to take you to surgery to close some of those lacerations and that stab wound.”

  Thankfully, Paul could feel the edge of the pain tapering off. Unfortunately, his stomach started pitching and rolling, and bile was making its way up his throat. What followed was a day of hell. The doctors pumped him full of antibiotics, painkillers, and anti-nausea medications. They were afraid that if he started throwing up, he’d accidentally rip something and end up back in surgery. Half the time he didn’t know which way was up. And most of the time, he didn’t care.

  On day two, the police visited him.

  “I know you are in pain, and I’ll try to keep this short. Can you tell me what happened?” The detective’s identification said “Chris Stillen.” Paul studied the man, who looked to be in his late thirties, with a shaved head and a hint of a large tattoo peeking out of the edge of his light-blue, crisp, dress-shirt collar. His serious brown eyes looked right into Paulie’s and he decided Detective Stillen was one of the good guys.

  Paul valiantly tried to describe the whole incident in as great of detail as he could. The detective’s pen scratched against the paper in his small notebook as he scribbled as fast as Paul could talk. When he was finished, Detective Stillen asked, “Did you know either of those two people?”

  That was when Paul told the whole sordid story of the last year of his life. He started with Phen Pennington bringing in his lawn mower for service and ended with the stranger breaking into his house.

  When he was finished, the detective looked at Paul and let out a long, low whistle. “You’ve gotten yourself quite a stalker there, Mr. Weber. We’ll start the process of issuing a bulletin to bring him in for questioning. Unfortunately, the policeman that interrupted the attack didn’t get a good look at your attacker and there wasn’t a lot of evidence left at the scene. Once we’ve questioned Pennington and can somehow link him to being in town or better yet at the scene. We should have enough to book him. But I have to warn you, he could still potentially be out on bail within a couple of days, maybe hours.”

  “What can I do?” Paul asked.

  “I can’t officially put you in a safe house. At this time it is still being considered a burglary gone wrong. Once I get back to the station and start things rolling, that most likely will change. But until then you need to find a place where you can stay that’s off the grid, preferably where you have some kind of protection.” The detective was so serious and solemn that Paul became even more scared than he was before.

  “I think I’m going to call a friend and see if he can let me stay with him.” Paul’s abdomen was starting to feel every cut that had been carved into it. His stomach was also starting to roll, making it hard to breathe through the heat rushing to his face. The deep tiredness of the last year was threatening to take over again.

  “I have your cell phone number on file. I’ll also leave my number with you so you can let me know where you’ll be staying. If you need anything or have any questions, Paul, please feel free to call me.” The detective laid his hand on top of Paul’s and gave it a gentle squeeze.

  Paul looked up into warm brown eyes and realized the detective was offering more than Paul was interested in asking for.

  “Thank you detective. I’ll keep that in mind,” Paul replied. Paul made sure to keep his face friendly, but nothing else.

  Detective Stillen studied him for a moment and then nodded. “Keep in touch, Paul, and take care.”

  Standing up the detective started to turn and then stopped. “Just one more thing,” he said. “Pennington sounds like he has a lot of money and political connections. Officially I will follow the book and hopefully stop him once and for all. But, I think I’ll call a few connections of my own and see if something can be done behind the scenes.”

  This was the first time since the whole horror started that someone actually was trying to help him beyond the minimum underpaid requirement. Paul could have wept. “Thank you so much, detective Stillen.”

  Paul smiled weakly and the detective smiled back in understanding. Both knowing, because of the current circumstances, that at the most, friendship was all there could be between them.

  The detective left and Paul slipped into a drug-induced restless sleep. On the third day, he woke up to the hair on the back of his neck standing up. He immediately called Elliot.

  “Elliot, it’s Paul.”

  “Holy shit! Paulie, are you okay?” Elliot exclaimed.

  “Pennington caught me, Elliot. He had a knife and he cut me up pretty bad. I’m in the hospital, but I can’t stay here.” Paul continued. “I can feel he’s close. I have to get out of here, now.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll have a ticket ready for you at the airport,” Elliot said. “Hopefully I’ll have time to make the drive to pick you up when you land. If not, I promise you that someone will be there. Just get here and we’ll keep you safe.”

  * * * *

  Nolan Clark stood still as a statue in the busy airport, holding a standard-sized white sheet of paper. Across
the middle, written in black magic marker, was the name “Paul Weber.” He had been at a ranch one town over, looking at a used tractor for his boss, when Graham had called and sent him to the airport to pick up Elliot’s friend.

  For most people, this wouldn’t be a big issue. But for Nolan, it was as huge of an issue as his stature. Nolan was six-foot-seven, big-boned, and had muscles on top of muscles. Taking care of the machinery on the Crazy Angle could be back-breaking. Sometimes he took a break from an engine he was working on and helped one of the hands unload hay or clean out the barn. He also enjoyed riding and competing in weight-pulling and hitch competitions with the big draft horses. Nolan liked moving and working his body.

  With parents that were both over six feet tall, his siblings were both taller than average, but not as tall or as big as Nolan. Call it genetics or whatever, but he just naturally tended to pack muscle on his big frame.

  Unfortunately, as a child Nolan was shy by nature. His brother and sister would pull him along to play with their friends, but he usually ended up in the corner playing by himself. It was when he hit puberty and shot up to six feet, towering over all of the other thirteen-year-olds, that he really started to feel awkward. The stares and names only made him withdraw even more.

  Of course, all of the coaches were interested in him joining their teams. Under pressure from his parents, he reluctantly participated in football and basketball. He did well in football, but he wasn’t fast enough to excel in basketball. After long practices of running drills, his knees would start to bother him.

  When he turned nineteen, clothes became an issue. His shoulders were rapidly filling out and he was already working on a ranch outside of town, gaining muscles that strained the seams of his shirts. Ill-fitting clothes drew him even more attention. By then he could hardly push out any words from his mouth.

  Nolan continued to work at the local ranch after high school, but he also forced himself to enroll in a local technical college and studied mechanics. Engines fascinated him, and he had a strong understanding of the computerized technology all the newer models contained. At the ranch, he was proudly reassigned to maintaining the machinery.

  Then he met Graham Conner, who was visiting the ranch one day while Nolan was working. With a lot of patience, Graham took the time to get to know Nolan and saw how talented he was with horses and machines. Because of Graham, he was welcomed with gentle acceptance by the men of the Crazy Angle. They helped him, but didn’t overwhelm.

  When Trace brought Xavi home, Nolan found someone else who experienced the same problems he did every day. For Nolan, meeting Xavi and seeing how determined he was to conquer his shyness to be in Trace’s life helped Nolan get a handle on his own. Both of them would never be big talkers, but because of the Crazy Angle, when they had something to say, they were able to.

  Now Nolan was standing in a swarm of people, many who would jerk their heads or pause in their step when they saw him. Nolan never would get used to that, and he tightened his jaw in determination. Graham had said that this Paul Weber was in trouble. Apparently, he had been on the run for about a year now. Graham had explained to Nolan that the stalker had caught Paul and he was seriously injured.

  There wasn’t much Nolan wouldn’t do for Graham. So, he stood there, even though he desperately wanted to be back at the ranch, and waited for the injured man to get off the plane.

  Nolan watched as a stream of people came through a door from the passenger unloading area. Unfortunately, no one fit the description of a small, dark-blond-haired man. When no one else came through the door, Nolan frowned.

  Then a man stood there. He looked to be about five-seven and very thin, dressed in gray sweatpants and a blue T-shirt with a gray sweatshirt jacket zipped up over it. His hair might be dark blond, but it was hard to tell, as it was now a wavy, wet mess. Sweat coated the man’s ash-gray face and the look in his glassy eyes was part wild and part determined He had both arms crossed over his belly and was hunched over just a bit. Paul Weber clearly was sick, in pain, scared, and to Nolan, one of the most beautiful men he had ever seen.

  Nolan started over to Paul, worried he might keel over at any moment, as the man’s eyes frantically searched the room. Nolan saw the exact moment Paul saw him and read the sign. Pretty hazel eyes widened as they traveled from the sign up to Nolan’s face.

  Nolan let out the breath he hadn’t known he was holding, when there wasn’t any fear or distaste on Paul’s face as he looked him over.

  Now that he had reached the small man, he wasn’t sure what to do. That problem was solved when Paul said, “Please tell me you’re a friend of Elliot’s. I don’t think I can go much further.”

  Nolan knew if he carried or even held the small man up as they left the airport, security would be on them in seconds. Graham had made it clear that they had to be discreet, to try and not draw any attention. So Nolan did the only thing he could think of.

  “Take my arm, please,” he managed to say.

  Paul kept one hand on his belly and grabbed onto the crook of Nolan’s elbow. Slowly, they made their way through the lobby and out the door. Nolan headed right over to a group of benches next to the passenger pickup area. Gently, he took Paul by both thin shoulders and helped to carefully lower him onto the seat of the brown plastic bench.

  “I’ll get the truck,” he said.

  In the truck, Nolan called Graham. “We have a problem.”

  “What happened?” Graham asked.

  “He needs to go to the hospital or something. He’s in a lot of pain and I can see blood seeping through his clothes.” During their short walk out to the bench, blood had been making an ever-growing spot on the leg of Paul’s pants. Nolan worried what might be under the coat.

  Nolan heard a muffled discussion taking place on Graham’s side of the phone, and then Graham was back with Nolan.

  “Let me make a call,” Graham said. “I have a friend who runs a walk-in clinic. We have to try and avoid the hospital. Once Paul’s name is entered into the computer system, there’s a good chance the maniac who is stalking him will know where he is.”

  By the time Nolan had the truck parked next to the curb in front of the bench, he saw Graham had texted him the name and address of the clinic. Quickly, he entered the coordinates into his GPS and then he was out of the truck and crouched down in front of a hunched-over Paul.

  Gently, Nolan put his hands on Paul’s knees and leaned his head down until he could look at Paul’s tortured face. “You need to get into the truck,” he said.

  “I can’t move. I’m afraid everything is going to gush open. I ran out of pain pills. Oh shit, I think I’m going to throw up.”

  In one motion, Nolan straightened and scooped Paul into his arms. Because bucket seats never fit Nolan’s big frame comfortably, he had a bench seat in his truck. He easily held Paul close with one arm, opened the passenger side front door and carefully laid him onto it. Opening the back door, he pulled out an old towel and his bed pillow that he always brought along on the few trips he took for Graham.

  Quickly, he went back to Paul and gently helped him place the pillow against his abdomen. Paul was making retching noises and Nolan hastily shut the door and went around to the driver’s side where Paul’s head was. By now, poor Paul’s face was an ashen green and he looked in extreme pain, as his retching became even louder. Nolan reached over and placed one of his large hands firmly against Paul’s stomach area, hoping somehow he could help hold everything together. In his other hand, he held the towel under Paul’s mouth.

  Gritting his teeth, he said, “Let it go.”

  Paul cooperated and what little he had in his stomach landed in the towel. After a few minutes of dry heaves, Paul collapsed onto the seat. Nolan gathered the towel up into a ball and carried it over to a trashcan. Then Nolan got into the truck and gently lifted Paul’s sweaty head so it could lie on his lap.

  Thank goodness it only took about ten minutes to get to the clinic. A white-coated doctor was waiti
ng and holding open the door for Nolan as he carried an unconscious Paul through it.

  Chapter Three

  Paul opened his eyes and found himself lying on a doctor’s hard examining table. His arms, legs, and his whole torso were covered by a white sheet and felt like they were on fire. Looking around, he saw he had an IV hooked up to his arm, and the bag of clear liquid attached to it was almost empty. Movement caught his eye, and there to the side of him was the huge, gorgeous guy that had picked him up at the airport.

  “What happened? Where am I?” he asked.

  “I brought you to a clinic. The doc patched you up,” said a deep baritone voice. It made shivers run up Paul’s spine. Even as sick as he was, his body reacted to the intense attraction he was feeling.

  Paul was just about to ask another question when his stomach started kicking up a storm, rolling and pitching wildly. Frantically he looked around and was just about to attempt getting up, when Mr. Huge and Hunky grabbed the waste can in the corner and rushed to his side.

  Paul started to gag. Large hands wrapped around his shoulders and he was gently lifted painfully into a sitting position. The next thing he knew, he had a scrumptious, muscled arm wrapped around his shoulders and the can at ready near his mouth. Pressing his hands to his bandage-covered belly to try and keep it secure, he started heaving into the can. Pain radiated throughout his body with each heave as very little came up. That wasn’t surprising, as he hadn’t been able to eat much of anything since the attack. Finally, his stomach calmed down and the arm around his shoulders helped him gratefully lie back down.

  A cool wet, paper towel was patted over his sweaty face and then he was handed a paper cup filled half-full of water. He put the water in his mouth and then spit it into the second empty cup Hunky handed him.

  “I’ve puked on you twice now. I think we know each other well enough that you can tell me your name.” Paul was trying for humor. What else could he do to get past this incredibly embarrassing situation?