Rage: A Love Story Read Online Free Page A

too close and I’m too needy.
    I’m also hot and sticky. I beat a path to my bedroom tochange from my drawstrings into jeans, wishing, not for the first time, that my bedroom door had a lock. Novak knows it’s off-limits, but I don’t trust Dante.
    When I emerge into the living room, Dante has Novak’s shirt up around her neck and her bra unlatched. I snatch a hoodie off the divan and yank the door shut behind me.
    The door whooshes open. Novak says, “Johanna,” breathing hard. She wrestles her shirt down over her boobs and hands me something. “You can borrow it,” she says.
    They’re keys to her Crossfire. “You’re kidding.”
    She smiles weakly. “What would I do without you?”
    “Get a hotel?” I say.
    She blows me a kiss and shuts the door.
    I sit in the Crossfire for two or three minutes, swooning, scared to crank the ignition. Plus, I don’t know where to go. The hospice? The tweenie town mall? What a waste of a hot car.
    Slowly, carefully, I shift into first and inch away from the curb. I drive around the neighborhood, getting used to the gears, the feel of the clutch and brake. The Crossfire was Novak’s eighteenth-birthday present from her parents. My parents didn’t quite make it to mine. The interior is white leather, no backseat. Too cramped for sex. But there’s an MP3 player, GPS, OnStar.
    Mickey D’s is all lit up, a queue of cars at the drive-thru, honking and flashing their lights. Someone moons out the top of a convertible.
    I idle at a red light, accidentally gunning the engine. A guy hollers, “Novak, you cunt! Suck my bone!”
    I auto the window down and flip him the bird. Guys are so … typical.
    An idea springs loose and I zip into the far-left lane, gunning for the Interstate.
    I only know about Rainbow Alley from a flyer in film class. The Gay/Straight Alliance was hyping this horror-movie night at Rainbow Alley. I was too gutless to join the GSA, mostly because I knew Reeve was in it. Reeve and the other LBDs. Those girls, their tribal unity, intimidate me. Reeve doesn’t just scare me. She terrifies me. It gets worse every day, this smoldering want, my crushing need. I think I’ve been in love with Reeve Hartt since the first time I saw her.
    Why can’t I just approach her, talk to her? The ache I feel every time I see her. It’s killing me.
    In downtown Denver, I drive past 1050 Broadway three times. No neon pink triangles or flashing rainbow flags. But there is an actual alley behind the building, so I veer into it.
    Suddenly, the night opens up like Narnia. Lights glow, music blares.
    Two people come racing down the alley, one squealing, the other chasing her with a pump water gun. They run in front of me and the guy with the gun thunks on the hood of the Crossfire.
    “Hey!”
    “Sorry.” He holds the water gun over his head and sticks his face in my open window. “Tight wheels.”
    “Thanks.”
    He streaks off again.
    I take a deep breath. Okay, I can do this. Now or never? Now.
    Cars and SUVs hog the cramped parking lot. The backdoor to the two-story building is propped open with a chair, and voices and music float out. On the fire escape stairs, a couple of girls are cuddling and kissing.
    Can I do this?
    Yes! Dammit
.
    I lick my dry lips.
Will I see her?
    The door to the Crossfire opens and my legs swing out. The girl from the chase-down says, “Bitchin’ car.” Her shirt’s soaked.
    “Thanks,” I say. “It’s not mine.”
    Her eyes waffle. “You jacked it?”
    I stare at her nipples. “It’s a friend’s.”
    She eyes the interior over my shoulder. “Bitchin’ friend. Introduce me.”
    I laugh, and so does she. She’s a boy dyke, or whatever, with a shaved head and hairy legs. Not really my type, but what
is
my type? I have only one: Reeve Hartt.
    “You here for the karaoke?” she asks.
    “Um… I guess.”
    “Starts soon. I’m Tiffany.” She extends her hand. “T.”
    “Johanna,” I say, shaking it. She holds my hand longer than a