That Turtle Story

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  By C.S. Poe

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  That Turtle Story

  By C.S. Poe

  Nor O’Brien spends his days in sunny Key West caring for and rehabilitating sea turtles. He doesn’t need anything else in life, expect maybe a significant other to cuddle with after a long day. But recent heartbreak has left Nor salty, and he’s not in the mood for anything, Christmas included.

  Then Eugene Montgomery walks into Turtle R&R, claiming to have found a clutch of eggs in distress. Nor is smitten with the tourist at first sight, and at the suggestion of his screwball colleagues, indulges in some no-strings-attached fun. Nor and Eugene are quick to get along, happily enjoy each other’s company, and take in the island’s unique holiday pleasures together.

  But Nor would never leave his turtles, not for any man. So when his rebound fling turns into strong romantic feelings for Eugene, it’ll take a Christmas miracle to keep the two together forever in Key West.

  Author’s Note

  TO SUPPORT nonprofit organizations that are dedicated to the rehabilitation of endangered sea turtles in the Keys, consider making a visit to The Turtle Hospital, located in Marathon, Florida.

  GUS HEATHER took a deep breath. “Oh—!”

  Fucking hell, she was going to sing Dean Martin again.

  “Don’t,” I warned from where I was seated at the counter.

  Gus looked at me, mouth still open, ready to finish the Christmas jingle. “The—”

  “No.”

  “Weather—”

  “Gus. I swear to God.”

  She frowned. “Is weather,” she concluded with anticlimactic awkwardness.

  Whomp, whomp.

  Gus—real name Grizela, but she hated it—was our newest volunteer at Turtle Rescue & Rehabilitation. She was a retired boat captain who I thought got too much sun in her younger years and was now permanently a little off.

  I gave her side-eye until I was certain she wasn’t going to burst into holiday songs again.

  I didn’t hold any particular grudge against Dean Martin. He had a pleasant enough voice, and the song was wonderfully romantic. But when the owner of the hospital played exactly two Christmas CDs religiously on repeat for the entirety of December…. Safe to say I’d been “Let It Snow”-ed out the last few weeks.

  And really, this was Key West. The weather outside wasn’t frightful (except during hurricane season). A fire would have been anything but delightful. And since I did have many places to go, it’d better not freakin’ snow.

  Jesus.

  Was I in a mood or what?

  “Stupid schmaltzy music,” I said. Like, yeah, stick it to the man!

  “Someone’s got a case of the Mondays,” Gus said as she returned to restocking the postcard rack in what served as our welcome center and gift shop.

  “Gonna have a case of my foot up your ass soon,” I muttered.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  The track changed. “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”

  I snorted. Gay yuletide, sure. I could do that. But merry? My fanny.

  “Nor,” Gus said from across the room.

  “Gus,” I answered.

  “Have you considered a hookup or something?”

  I’d been studying the educational tour planner and trying to decide who to strangle for overbooking our two o’clock class. I looked up and stared hard at Gus.

  She stared right back.

  “A hookup?” I repeated after the prolonged silence.

  “You might feel better,” Gus said, waving the stack of postcards in her hand.

  I gently closed the planner, set my elbows on the counter, and rested my chin on my raised hands. “Pray tell.”

  “It might help you get over Tom.”

  “Cruising drunk college bros wearing beach shorts on Duval does sound enticing,” I said dryly, realizing a fraction of a second too late that Gus hadn’t picked up on the sarcasm.

  “I mean, if that’s what you’re into,” she agreed.

  I dropped my head down with a loud thump.

  “You guys broke up last month.”

  “I wasn’t aware heartbreak had an expiration date,” I muttered.

  “You’re not even thirty,” Gus continued. “Life didn’t end when Tom walked out.”

  “Thanks, doc.” I looked up. “What do I owe you for my session?”

  “I’m just saying.”

  “Well, let’s not keep saying,” I concluded. “Or I’m scheduling you on tank-cleaning days.”

  Gus wisely dropped the subject.

  I took my glasses off, put my face into both hands, and heaved a rather dramatic sigh. Yeah, I admit, it’d been slow going getting over my ex. I guess it wasn’t him—Tom—I’d been struggling to get over, but more like… what he had represented. I thought he’d been my happily ever after. At the end of the day, Key West was a pretty small town. There weren’t a lot of single gay guys in my age bracket looking for the long-term thing. Let alone someone who was a permanent resident, and into sea turtles and vegan burritos.

  And don’t get me wrong. I loved living in the Keys. I adored my job—daresay, calling—but it left my selection in men frighteningly limited. If I didn’t find myself a nice guy by next Pride, I’d be going simply to distribute single-and-ready-to-mingle cards.

  Nor O’Brien, 28.

  Looking for monogamy and cuddles.

  I give good head.

  Turtle R&R’s front door opened.

  I peeked between my fingers.

  Holy Hell and God Almighty, who was the hottie?

  Was he confused about where he was? Hotties didn’t come into the marine life rescue center. School kids did. Families on vacation did. Cowboy Willy from Fish and Wildlife did.

  He was tall, lean, with abs made for 24-7 beach access, and messy, damp auburn hair that was lightened by kisses from the sun.

  My hands slid off my face and hit the desktop. I grabbed my glasses and put them on before standing from my seat.

  Hottie stood in the doorway, respectfully tugging a T-shirt over his wet chest before entering.

  “No, the abs don’t have to go,” I murmured.

  He looked across the room, made eye contact, and offered a confident smile.

  Geez… even his pearly whites were perfect. What was the catch? There was always a catch with a guy like that.

  Straight?

  Convicted felon?

  Visiting from Wyoming?

  I cleared my throat and walked across the room. “Welcome to Turtle R&R.”

  Hottie nodded in response, rubbed his sandy hands against his T-shirt, and directed his gaze briefly to my chest.

  I glanced down at my name tag. “Oh. Nor O’Brien,” I quickly said, tapping the badge. “Manager. Obviously. I mean, not that it’s obvious that I’m a manager, but it—the name tag says so. That I am. I mean.”

  Jesus Christ.

  Hottie listened politely before saying, “Hey, Nor.” He offered his now-clean hand. “Eugene Montgomery.” His handshake was just a smidgen too firm, but so warm and a little rough—the hand porn was strong with this one.

  “Eugene.” The name had a decidedly unique taste on my tongue. I liked saying it. “Eugene,” I repeated.

  Eugene nodded and looked at our still-shaking hands.

  I jerked free. “Ha-ha… uh….”

  “Nor was recently dumped,” Gus said suddenly from behind us.

  Eugene looked over my shoulder at her.

  “Yup. So it’s not that he’s a typical eye-undresser,” Gus continued, “j
ust that I think he’s entering the rebound stage—”

  “I’m not,” I hastily said to Eugene.

  “And he saw your abs,” Gus said.

  Eugene smiled at that and glanced down at me. “I’m a personal trainer,” he clarified.

  “Of course you are,” I answered. My face and neck were hot, I was surprised no one saw smoke wafting up from the collar of my shirt. “Gus is teasing.”

  “No, I’m not,” Gus said, sounding too serious for her own good. “Hey, if you’re into dudes,” she addressed Eugene, “Nor is Grinch-lite—cute in the glass-is-half-empty sort of way. Might make your vacation memorable.”

  “All right,” I snapped. “Gus is joking, and if she doesn’t want to end up our Official Turtle Shit Shoveler, she’ll stop talking.” I looked back at her.

  Gus had the audacity to shrug, like she couldn’t understand she’d done fucking wrong.

  “So you guys rescue turtles, right?” Eugene asked, raising his voice to be heard over our bickering.

  I perked up and turned. “Turtles—what? Yes. Why?”

  “Well, I found a turtle nest, I think,” Eugene answered. He jutted a thumb over his shoulder. “Down at Smathers Beach.”

  “Unhatched eggs this time of year?” Gus said, sounding confused.

  “Loggerhead, probably,” I murmured. “It’s possible, if they were laid at the very end of nesting season.”

  “Late October?” Gus asked.

  “Mm-hm.” I looked up at Eugene again. “Are you sure? I mean, we have walkers comb the beaches on a regular basis, and there hasn’t been a nest reported on Smathers all season.”

  Eugene dipped his head a bit, running his fingers through that gorgeous hair. “Pretty sure. Unless the pelicans around here have taken to laying and burying their eggs in the sand.”

  I felt myself flush again. “I didn’t mean to imply you were stupid or anything.”

  He flashed another one of those blindingly white, could-be-seen-from-fucking-space smiles. “No harm, no fowl.” Eugene winked.

  I snorted loudly and then covered my mouth.

  “Anyway—the nest isn’t right out in the open, but it looks like it’s been dug up recently. Some of the eggs are destroyed.”

  My heart plummeted to my gut. “Destroyed? Oh my God.” I went behind the counter and fetched the keys for the company pickup. “We’re going to have to remove what’s left. Smathers is too high traffic for them to be safe.”

  “Should I call Cowboy Willy?” Gus asked.

  “Yeah. Ask him to meet me at Smathers. And let Tracy know I’m stepping out,” I said as I ran to the door. I stopped, turned, and backtracked to Eugene. “I’ll need you too. For the turtles. Not the—”

  Abs.

  I waved both hands at him. “You know what I mean.”

  Eugene was giving me a look—a sort of careful appraisal where he seemed to be taking in my short stature, small frame, cynical expression, and deciding how he felt about it. Eugene met my eyes and slowly grinned.

  Ohhh boy. I felt that smile. Felt it all the way down to my balls.

  Was I on the rebound?

  I didn’t feel like I was. And a quick gander at my romantic history would prove I wasn’t one for casual hookups and actually took dating pretty seriously. So why was I suddenly digging the fact that Eugene was staring at me the way Rosie, our leatherback sea turtle, stared at buckets full of jellyfish?

  I shuddered at the thought—but maybe Gus was right. Maybe I needed to loosen up. Forget all about He Broke My Heart Tom. Have some no-strings-attached fun with a guy I’d never see again once his vacation ended.

  “Turtles!” I blurted out, running for the door.

  SMATHERS WAS packed.

  That wasn’t strange. It was a free public beach on a tropical island during the height of tourist season. And it was also unusually warm for December, driving more folks to lounge in the sun and enjoy the waves when the water would otherwise be considered downright brisk by some of the locals.

  I pulled onto the side of the road, parked the truck, switched to a pair of sunglasses, and got out of the cab. I went around the back and climbed into the bed to collect the Styrofoam box we used for egg transportation, official signage, and some quick-and-dirty fencing used to keep the lookie-loos out of our way while working.

  “Let me help.” Eugene had his arms extended outward as I turned.

  “Oh, sure, thanks.” I admit to giving him the heavier items, but Mr. Personal Trainer wielded the fencing in one damn hand.

  Show-off.

  I hopped down and sank my shoes into the soft, imported sand, then followed Eugene through the throngs of people who were going to regret forgoing sunscreen in favor of a base. With a UV Index of ten today, they’d have anything but a nice winter tan come tomorrow morning.

  Whatever. You can’t fix stupid.

  “Here it is,” Eugene finally said. He’d led me farther away from the entrance and toward the lines of towering palms. “Out of the way,” he continued, “but not quite enough so, unfortunately.” He stopped at a beach chair and set the fencing down. “I put my chair over the nest so no one would accidentally run through it.”

  “Smart thinking,” I answered.

  Eugene moved the furniture aside.

  I crouched down to examine part of the clutch that had been unearthed. I glanced toward the water, then frowned. “It looks like the tide has been chipping away at the nest.”

  “Wouldn’t that have happened—you said they’d have been laid in October?”

  “We’ve been having some crazy weather,” I answered. “Lots of rain last week. Now we’re baking in what is essentially August heat.”

  My cell started ringing. I stood and tugged it free from my back pocket. It was Willy, our go-to man when we needed Florida Fish and Wildlife assistance down in the southernmost city of the state. He was… a bit strange… but after growing up on an island only four miles long and just over a mile wide, where humans were overrun by clowders of feral cats and messes of iguanas, and one’s neighbors are infamous locals like Stache-Thong and the Chicken Whisperer… we’re all a bit strange in our own ways.

  “Howdy, Nor.”

  “Hey, Willy. Listen. We’ve got an unaccounted-for nest on Smathers. My guess is a loggerhead.” I bent down beside the eggs. “It’s been partially disturbed by the tide and human interference. A few eggs have been destroyed.”

  “Aw. Poor babes,” Willy muttered, voice gruff with emotion. “How the hell’d y’all miss a nest on Smathers?”

  “Hey, hey,” I said defensively. “After the hurricane, we’re down two staff members and have to depend almost entirely on volunteers to do beach checks.” I glanced over my shoulder and saw Eugene taking the initiative to drive the fence stakes into the sand around us. I guess my Turtle R&R T-shirt and baseball cap were already drawing attention. “I think we need to move the nest to the center.”

  “I agree. Not that there’s much of a chance the eggs will hatch now.”

  “And people call me a Debbie Downer,” I commented.

  “You’re going to have to do it without me.”

  “Why?” I cradled the phone between my ear and shoulder, grabbed the Styrofoam box, and began packing it with sand.

  “I’m stuck on Seven Mile Bridge.”

  “Great,” I muttered. “All right. I’ll ring later with an update.”

  “Adios,” Willy said before ending the call.

  I stuffed the phone into my pocket and looked up at Eugene. “Have any interest in becoming a Turtle R&R volunteer for the day?”

  Eugene tugged his beach shorts up a bit before getting down on his knees in the sand. “What do you need?”

  “Help transferring the nest.”

  “I can do that.”

  “All right.” I spun my cap backward to get the brim out of the way. “The thing about turtle eggs is, you can’t turn or rotate them when moving from one location to another.” I used a marker from my other pocket to m
ake a cross on the first shell, gently gathered the egg, and placed it into the box. “Like so. Any change in the orientation can damage the embryo. That’s why we mark them before transport.” I offered him a second marker.

  Eugene pulled his hovering hand back. “Are you sure I should be touching these, if they’re that delicate?”

  “My help is stuck on a bridge indefinitely,” I said. “And keeping the eggs exposed to the elements any longer will most certainly kill them.”

  Eugene ran his fingers through his hair a few times before hesitantly taking the marker and picking up an egg. He slowly and methodically copied what I was doing. “Like this?”

  “Perfect. Just repeat that about a hundred more times.”

  “This is nerve-racking.”

  “But the payoff is worth it. If any of these babies survive, you’ll feel like a proud parent.”

  “Like Master Splinter,” Eugene replied. “You’ll be Donatello,” he said to an egg as he placed it into the box. “And you’re definitely Michelangelo.” He picked up another egg.

  “The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were actually red-eared sliders,” I said as I dug out the nest.

  “Cowabunga,” Eugene murmured.

  I bit back a smile.

  “I guess you know a lot about turtles.”

  “I’d have a fair shot at winning Jeopardy! if they were the only category,” I answered. “But I’ve been working for Turtle R&R since I was twenty-two, so I live and breathe marine life at this point.”

  “How old are you now?”

  I glanced up over the rim of my sunglasses. “How old do you think I am?”

  Eugene met my gaze. “If I were a bartender, I’d have carded you. Maybe served you a Shirley Temple.”

  “Rude,” I laughed. “I’m twenty-eight.”

  “Yeah? And I’m guessing not a Shirley Temple drinker.”

  “Hell no. Martinis.”

  Eugene’s smile grew. “Dry or wet?”

  “Dirty,” I countered. “With three olives.” I dug a handful of sand and then paused. “Wow. We’re not talking about drinks anymore, are we?”

  “Not if you aren’t.”

  Holy crap, was a hookup really this easy?