Page 3 of Tate: Gemini King

Deadlifting before 6 a.m. separates the men from the boys. Dylan texts me back quickly, which means he won’t be late this time. Natasha is gonna be so mad when she wakes up. Once I’m done with the gym, I’m picking up my new puppy from the local dog rescue affiliated with the fire station, aided by my cousin Terran Whitmarsh.

Natasha has made it clear that she has a negative opinion of dogs around the house, especially any dog I might bring into the situation. She accused me of being “just the type” to surprise her with a “mutant Cane Corso”, whatever the fuck that means.

She talks a big goddamn talk about hating my guts, but she won’t say no to a new pet. We could use something around her to brighten her constantly sour mood. Tonight, she’ll have to get used to my new dog because we have another Nor’easter blowing in and this one will be even bigger than the one before it.

I have a feeling I’ll get a call in the middle of the night, which is normally the case when you expect a comfortable day off. This job is a whole lot of nothing happening, so when something happens its a shitshow and in this line of work, it’s normally something completely fucked up.

If we get monumentally lucky, which I doubt we will, Central New Yorkers might be smart enough to keep their asses off the road tonight considering each blizzard gets stronger than the last and dumps enough snow on our part of the state to bury us. The media keeps calling the snowstorms more and more dramatic names, but nothing stops folks from driving if they want to drive.

I don’t know how Terran handles it out there in the boondocks, far away from the Walmart and further away from the good Wegman’s. I’m only out here because of unforeseen circumstances. The bullshit crazy past I couldn’t run away from if I tried.

I guess I could get used to the quiet out here, because there’s a part of me that’s just tired of the craziness. And pretty fucking happy Natasha doesn’t seem to know about it. Feels good to have a roommate that hates me for her own petty reasons instead of the big reason that everyone else in this town hates me. Everyone has shit they prefer to keep locked up in the past…

When I get to the gym Dylan stands in the front of the bar, warming up without me and somehow already dripping in sweat.

“How long have you been here?” I ask as I strip off my pump cover and try not to be the type of guy who compares myself to Dylan. The man is the size of a goddamn horse.

“I’m just warming up,” he says calmly. “Been up all night with the baby.”

He does have crazy dark circles under his eyes. And he looks like shit. Makes me feel better about being so much smaller than the guy, although it’s not like I’m unimpressive.

“You look like it,” I grumble, enjoying the opportunity to smack Dylan down just a little.

“Thanks,” Dylan responds, letting my jab roll right off him.

“Seriously. When was the last time you shaved?”

“Take the bar,” Dylan grunts in my direction. I take a warm up set and we work out in peaceful silence for another half hour, until we build to our heaviest lifts for the morning. I’m pretty tough, but Dylan is 6’7” tall – about an inch shorter than me. And if he stops lifting for even one week, his muscles will turn right to fat. My body is cut and lean, with a little extra muscle, but not enough to make me look like a monster.

By the time we’re done, I’m ready for some breakfast and another nap. We’re both off for the next 48 hours, but always on call since we’re in such a small town. We should spend the rest of the night unbothered and hunkering down from the snowstorm unless some major shit happens tonight that requires more manpower than normal.

Lately, aside from the constant snow dumps, there hasn’t been much of anything interesting going on around here.

After our workout, every inch of my body is ready to die. It’s hard not to push yourself when you exercise with a Callahan. They are all dangerously competitive and they all enjoy winning almost as much as they love rubbing their victory in your face. Deep down, they’re all pretty decent guys. Dylan and I head down to a local diner together for a post-workout fuel session and he eats like he never saw a plate of food a day in his life.

I ask him if he wants to help me get the dog, but Dylan has fatherly duties after our diner breakfast, so we talk about hockey playoffs a little more, the huge Bills upset last season, his cousin Cormac’s gambling addiction, a drug call Fletcher Sweeney answered at the trailer park, and typical small town stuff.

Once we’re done catching up, I drive out to the Amish farm alone. This part of the country I like. The natural beauty and rolling green hills. The fresh air.

I hear Terran’s dog Rogue howling and howling when I’m half a mile down the highway. I missed that dog while I was away. Didn’t think he would survive long enough to see again considering bloodhounds have big-dog life spans, but Rogue has the energy of a puppy.

Terran’s farm is far off the main road and I swear, he only comes to town to shop for groceries and then he heads back out here to keep being his gruff, uncouth self. My cousin has been out here with his wife Viola since she fell out of the sky and I won’t lie… I’m envious. Terran has made it clear exactly what he thinks is wrong with me, but I can’t figure out why I haven’t met the perfect woman.

I’m hot. I have blond hair. Grey eyes. A smile.

Women should be melting in my arms.

He told me once that my problem is this – “Women aren’t lining up to screw washed up Division III athletes who don’t know how to treat them right.”

Terran is ridiculous. I know how to treat women right. I just seem to always sink my teeth into the wrong women. There’s no way I’m the problem.

Look at me and Natasha. She hates my guts, but I’m completely innocent. Terran of all people should understand that the world – especially America – is incredibly biased against tall, handsome white men.

Today, I’ll try not to get into another argument with him about my failure to get married. Country folks are way too obsessed with marriage and having kids. I don’t see the point in rushing through all the traditional steps until I meet the right person.

I step out of the car and Rogue bounds over to me from the farmhouse’s open front door. Rogue’s howling didn’t leave much guessing about my arrival. I let him get his kisses in and scratch his ears before I see Terran tearing up the path from behind his apple trees, halfway out of breath. Terran is such a goddamn bastard.

He manages to look like he spends all day in the gym while doing absolutely nothing on this farm. At least I assume farm work is easy. Maybe not. He already has a disapproving look plastered on his face when he sees me standing there.

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