Title: The Last Piece of Us
Author: Eve Morton
Publisher: NineStar Press
Release Date: 10/18/2022
Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex
Pairing: Male/Male
Length: 91950
Genre: Paranormal, bisexual, trans, ghosts, hurt/comfort, road trips, road trip, psychic abilities, psychic/medium, Mythology, Mythical creatures, Dark, Magic, Criminals, Hurt/Comfort, Folklore, Action/Adventure
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Description
Ethan Cohle is a sarcastic, underemployed transgender man working at a Canadian Duty Free Shop with hopes to one day pay for his last surgery.
Even though his life falls flat in just about every area, when an adventure is presented by a man carrying supernatural creatures in a jar, Ethan only says yes because it’s a bigger and easier pay check.
As things become more and more complicated, Ethan’s life and assumptions about those around him begin to unravel. When Ethan becomes haunted, and his body seems to turn against him, Ethan begins to understand what it’s like to lose a piece of yourself, along with everyone else.
The Last Piece of Us
Eve Morton © 2022
All Rights Reserved
A day off meant he slept. Ethan stripped down to his boxer briefs and sports bra which was two sizes too small. Elastic lines embedded into his skin, criss-crossing him with hopeful neglect. Maybe one day, my breasts really will atrophy and fall off. He added a few shots of rum to a can of Coke from his fridge in order to help him sleep without dreaming. His fingers still smelled like patchouli and witch hazel from Aurora’s place.
You are special.
He laughed as he slipped under the covers. When his foot stuck out from under the blanket, another triangle shape on his body became visible. On the base of his foot, over the slender bones of his ankle, was another birthmark like the one on his chest. He held up his wrist and eyed the strange line and dots he’d found earlier. The mark was less visible when he wasn’t rubbing it constantly. But the mark was there, faint and wraithlike. How long had it been there? What did it mean?
You are a conduit. A bridge, a border between worlds.
Aurora’s words had been bittersweet to hear. They were ridiculous, but he stared at the valleys and ridges of his body and wondered. Maybe they were also necessary, and much needed. A call from his sister Leslie broke up his thoughts and pinned him down to the daily world. He declined the call. A message cropped up in his inbox moments before sleep finally took him.
When Francesca called six hours later, Ethan was half awake. She’d left a message, which meant he’d have to unlock his sister’s sudden interest in his life if he wanted to retrieve it. He dialed her from under the covers instead.
“What?”
“Good morning, starshine,” Francesca said. “Err, I mean afternoon. How’s it going?”
“I’ve lost an hour of my life,” he said. Springing forward meant work was over sooner, but his sleep was going to be perpetually catching up for the next week.
“You’ll get it back,” she said nonchalantly. “Come out with me tonight. There’s a party at someone’s lake house. They’re cleaning it up before spring really begins and having a few close people over.”
“Close friends, huh? So they’re expecting us?”
“They’re expecting Lila and Tiff, the other girls in my book club. So a couple more ain’t gonna hurt. Come with me?”
Ethan was awake now. Sleep clung to his body, along with the sickly sweet taste of rum and Coke on his breath. The glass jar where he kept his tips, found money, and other odd cash he’d picked up stared back at him from the windowsill, light cascading off it. He fought the urge to check his wrist again. “I don’t know if I can, Frannie. Can’t afford it.”
Francesca huffed. “Money is important. I get that. But I will not always wait for you. You have to come out once in a while.”
“You sound like my neighbour.” Sadness overwhelmed Ethan. He’d meant the remarks to become a joke but was serious. If he was a conduit, what good was he by himself? He closed his eyes and watched his small life recede in the distance and fall back into focus. The mark was still on his wrist, taunting him.
Francesca was already listing off ways he could still come to the party and save cash. Extra shifts he could take. But he was already convinced.
“Sure, I’ll go. But I’m not taking the bus.”
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Eve Morton is a writer living in Ontario, Canada. She teaches university and college classes on media studies, academic writing, and genre literature, among other topics. She reads tarot, has a lot of tattoos, and loves all things occult and supernatural in nature. She also loves true crime, especially the forensic side of it, and is often swayed by a really good podcast (even more when it is funny). She continues to do research work on LGBTQ communities, media representation, and film after completing her PhD in 2019. Find more information on Eve’s website.
