All the Rules of Heaven (All That Heaven Will Allow #1) - Amy Lane Page 0,65

favorite kind—but perhaps that came from living so long on his inheritance and feeling like a cosmic whore for most of his adult life.

The apartment itself was one of the converted Victorians down by the legal district. Tucker had slept with a lot of lawyers in the past fifteen years, as well as a not-surprising share of policemen, judges, and nonviolent offenders. For the most part, the criminals had been his favorite—in particular the businesswoman who woke up in the morning and said, “Oh my God! I hurt all those people! I do deserve jail!”

Yet another story he couldn’t tell.

Letting Josh talk—encouraging his friend to talk—was one more way to evade what Tucker’s life had become.

His apartment was a depressing reminder of that.

They trotted up the narrow stairwell, Andy bringing up the rear, and Tucker let them into the second-floor apartment. “Oh, holy cow,” Andy breathed. “This is awesome!”

Tucker looked around and smiled bitterly. “Thank you,” he said, leaching the irony from his voice.

He did keep a nice place.

Refinished hardwood floors, bright throw rugs, curiosity shelves with an eclectic mix of tchotchkes. Tucker’s apartment had been his haven—but it had also been solitary confinement.

Out on the street was his next one-night stand—or the ghost of someone who didn’t know he was dead or a vampire or an elf who would look at him with raised eyebrows and oh-so-chic insouciance.

Tucker’s world was not everyone else’s world. His home, the movies, the music, the puzzle books and history books and romances—these were the most normal things about him, and he wrapped them around his body like a fur-lined cocoon.

He didn’t have to be an empath to know the place emanated a deep and soul-consuming loneliness.

He just hoped Andy’s chirpy confidence, his belief in home and the undying love of his family was enough to overcome the chill of Tucker’s thirteen-year depression.

“I’ll get a box for the knickknacks,” Tucker said. “Andy, you can plug your phone into the stereo for music if you want—”

“No!” Josh complained good-naturedly. “He likes that alt-rock crap!”

“Mountain Goats it is.” Tucker winked at Josh. “Besides, you get your music in the car. Andy, you may want to make a list of stuff you want to bring—”

“Tucker, who’s Damien?” Andy asked, and if Tucker hadn’t had a long conversation with Andy’s mother and his family the day before, it would have taken him completely by surprise.

“Bring stuffed animals,” Tucker said, begging Andy with his eyes to not pursue the matter. “Bring music. Pictures of your family. Ask your mother to give you plants—they’ll make the place yours. And….” He thought of all the times he’d wanted a kitten but hadn’t known when he’d be home. “A pet. Even if it’s just a goldfish. A pet will make it more yours than—”

“Who’s Damien?” Andy insisted.

Tucker looked at Josh and shook his head. “There’s some boxes down in the truck. I’ll go get them.”

“I’ll get them,” Josh said. “You’re looking tired. Andy, come with me.”

“But Dad—”

“Son, let me tell you something that going to school won’t, once we get outside!”

“It hurts in here!” Andy burst out, and his dad grabbed his upper arm and hauled him out the door.

Tucker took a deep breath and looked around. It hurt in there.

Tucker needed to get the most haunted objects out.

Damien’s baseball mitt and the ball he’d gotten signed by Barry Bonds in their junior year of high school. His collection of baseball hats, hanging behind the couch. A picture of Tucker and his family, and Damien, taken at an amusement park—they’d gone for Tucker’s fifteenth birthday.

Tucker and Damien with awkward dates at the junior prom, taken by Tucker’s mom. Tucker and Damien graduating from high school, taken by Damien’s dad. From college, taken by some poor parent they’d grabbed by the collar.

Damien in a standard-issue bronze urn, in a place of honor on top of the bookshelf in the corner.

By the time Josh and Andy came trundling up the stairs, bickering the whole way, all traces of Tucker’s childhood crush and adult heartbreak had been gathered into a pile so Tucker could put them in a box. He didn’t need to protect himself with gloves or his T-shirt—he’d been living with that pain for so long it had seeped into his skin like a Damien callus.

“Good,” Tucker said brightly, making eye contact with nobody. “You brought them. Here, I’ll go get tape.”

He started toward the kitchen, where the standard junk was in the standard junk drawer, and then he turned around. “Uh, go