Rage: A Love Story Read Online Free

who mostly can’t eat.
    I wander through the empty cafeteria to the kitchen, where one of the nurses is chowing down a chimichanga while reading a paperback. He glances up and smiles. “Johanna, right?”
    Yikes. I don’t remember his name. “Hey … you,” I say lamely. The badge on his scrubs is covered by a jean jacket. He’s either coming in or going out.
    A tray of taquitos warms on the stove behind him, and as I lift up the foil, his cell rings. “Babe,” he speaks into it. “Where are you?” He gets up and leaves with his chimichanga.
    Solo mío
. I find a plate and help myself. Jeannette wanders in. “I’m sorry about Mrs. Arcaro,” she says. “I know you were close.”
    I nod and swallow. Mrs. Arcaro came to the hospice during the time Mom was here. I could’ve cared for Mom at home until the end, but Tessa decided I wasn’t capable. Even though I’d been doing it by myself the whole time she was sick.
    “Frank’s been agitated all day.” Jeannette pours herself a cup of coffee. “Maybe you could drop in and see him?”
    “Sure,” I say. Frank’s this grizzled old guy about ninety years old who has dementia and diabetes and I don’t know what all. He doesn’t have any family, or at least no one who cares enough to visit. Too many people die alone in this world.
    On my way to the ward, I stuff the rest of my taquito into my mouth. Frank’s laid out in bed, masturbating.
    Ew
. “Frank?” I say softly. “It’s Johanna.”
    He rubs his wanker. It’s dark and wrinkled. “Frank?”
    Nothing is really happening. No hardening of the, you know, arteries. For privacy, I pull his blanket over his lap. His eyes are far away and he has a quirky smile on his face.
    It makes me smile inside.
    Go for it, Frank
.

Chapter 4
     

 
    We’re in this amazing bed, naked, spinning around and around—because the bed is round. Reeve is kissing me and I’m all over her, running my hands through the hair on her head and between her legs. She’s soft and firm and arching into me
.
    She says, “Johanna. I love you. I want you.”
    “I want you too,” I say. “I want you bad.”
    The bed spins and spins. We spin harder and faster, out of control. She screams, “Don’t stop!”
    “I won’t. I promise.”
    She expels a breath like she’s emptying her lungs or cleansing her soul. I breathe her in and out. I run a red silk scarf over her flat belly and around her breasts and in between them. She unties the red ribbon in my hair to unleash my ponytail and my hair splashes like a waterfall over her face. She holds it back and I kiss her. I kiss her so soft and gentle it’s mist and fog. It’s spray. The beating of my
heart is constant and steady, sharp as knuckles on wood and metal and pounding on wood and pounding, pounding. …
    • • •
     
    K nocking? Someone is knocking.
    What time is it?
    I hold myself for one last surge, then stagger out of bed to answer the door.
    Dante looms behind Novak, grinning like the fool he is. “Hey ya, Joho,” he says.
    I hate that he uses Novak’s nickname for me.
    “Hi, sweetie.” Novak kisses me on the cheek. “We came to say hi. Hi.”
She’s
high. She slides past me into the apartment and I consider shutting the door in Dante’s face. He’s tall and thin, with razed hair and a shadow beard. His clothes are always the same—tight black tee and loose jeans that creep down his butt. One eyebrow is pierced.
    I loathe this jerk for all the hurt he’s laid on my friend. But she loves him. I have to honor that stupid fact.
    “What time is it?” I check my watch. 7:46—p.m. I vaguely remember deciding I’d skip Film Studies to sleep in.
    Dante tramps to the refrigerator and yanks it open, removes a can of Fresca.
My
Fresca. He pops the top and slugs it down.
    Novak rests her head on my shoulder. “I love you, Johanna Banana,” she says.
    “Give me a minute,” I tell her. “I’ll bail.”
    “You don’t have to.” Novak snuggles in tighter. She’s