Rock The Wolfe

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Rock the Wolfe

Copyright © 2013 by Karyn Gerrard

ISBN: 978-1-61333-617-5

Cover art by Mina Carter

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

Published by Decadent Publishing Company, LLC

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Rock the Wolfe

By

Karyn Gerrard

To all the Canadian rock acts I grew up with and still listen to, your music is timeless. Also heartfelt thanks to Gayl Taylor for her input on all things rock star.

Wolfe Phelan had the name for his next hit song: “Ativan Asshole.” Why not name the song after the prescription drug that had brought him to his knees?

Shit, he couldn’t be like any other run-of-the-mill rock star, strung out on coke or heroin or stumbling around shit-faced drunk on Jack Daniel’s. No, not him. His downfall had come at the potent grip of an anxiety drug. Of all fucking things.

Glancing about his room, he wondered what lay ahead. Who would’ve thought he’d be back sleeping in his parents’ basement, fourteen years after he’d left? Granted, it wasn’t the same house. Wolfe had bought his parents this sprawling three-thousand-square-foot ranch-style home eight years ago at the height of his success. Never dreamed he would come crawling back, licking his wounds like a damaged, feral animal.

He lay alone in the darkened rec room, listening to the familiar sounds of his parents moving about upstairs, their chairs scraping across the floor, the fridge door slamming shut. The odor of frying bacon wafted through the air vents and curdled his stomach. Who could think of food?

Wolfe exhaled. Another restless night of twisting in his bed, with strange dreams, cold sweats, and rank terror. The sheets were so damp he could wring them out. Swinging his legs around the side of the queen-size bed, he ran his fingers through his shoulder-length hair and shuddered. Six months since coming off the Ativan and still the effects gripped him. At least his psychomotor agitation had lessened. Pacing and wringing one’s hands at three in the morning was a total pain in the ass. Instead, now he tossed and turned. Yeah, big improvement.

What to do today? Help his father with the yard work? Watch a ball game? Sleep some more? Decisions, decisions. The humid July air had an oppressive dampness to it. Good thing he slept in the basement. He should’ve turned on the air conditioner last night. It wouldn’t have helped; he still would’ve woken up with soaking-in-sweat sheets.

“Wolfe! Breakfast!” his mother called.

Shit.
Thirteen all over again
. There. The name of another song. Keep this up and he would have a whole album before the summer ended.

“Yeah! Be right up!”

Naked, he stumbled into the half bath and splashed cold water on his face. He raised his head and forced himself to stare at his reflection.
Still look like shit
. Song number three. Damn, he
would
have enough for an album. Naming the songs came easy. Writing the music was another matter entirely.

Dark circles showed his lack of restful sleep, and the fine lines fanning out from his weary eyes accentuated the strain. He looked older than thirty-two. Hiding in the basement like a fucking spider wasn’t the answer, but at least it gave him a modicum of peace. The buzzing in his head had not been as pronounced since he’d arrived at his parents’ last week.

He would give them credit: they did not smother him or pepper him with questions. Of course, he hadn’t told them of The Overdose yet. All they knew is he’d had some sort of breakdown. Yeah, a collapse that had lasted two years, culminating with his divorce and the bust-up of his group, WolfePak.

After taking a piss, he stepped into a pair of sweatpants and pulled a black undershirt over his head. Giving his armpits a quick-sniff test, he figured he smelled clean enough to sit at the table.

As he opened the basement door, the sound of his father’s laughter reached his ears. His mother joined in. An emotion he had not felt in a long time clutched his insides. He was their only child and he knew they loved him, but his parents loved each other more. As it should be. In their mid-fifties and married since they’d been in their early twenties, the love that bound them together seemed tighter than ever. Wolfe stepped into the bright, cheery kitchen.

“How did you sleep, son?”

His father had asked that every morning since he’d arrived. One of his standard conversation starters. That, and the weather. Wolfe took a seat and reached for the carton of orange juice.

“Middlin’ to fair.”

“When are you going to tell us what happened?”

“Jake….” his mother warned.

“It’s all right, Mom. In a nutshell, everything went to shit, and I’m to blame.”

He poured a glass of juice and downed it, then poured another.

“No rush, Wolfe. You know we’re here when you’re ready to talk,” his father replied.

Damn, he loved his parents. Through the years, he’d always thrived on their unwavering support.

“I appreciate it. I need time. And I’d rather be here with you guys than anywhere else at the moment.”

His mother wiped away a stray tear. “That means so much to us.”

His father pointed to the Celtic cross tattoo on his shoulder. “Is that new?”

“Got it about six months ago.”

She placed a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon in front of him.
Gag
. But he had to try and eat. He’d already lost eleven pounds since The Overdose.

“No more ink, Wolfe, please. Your arms are completely covered.”

He gave his mother a playful wink. “Starting on my back next.”

She laughed, and tapped him with her dishcloth. “Don’t you dare!”

“Going to get a big, red heart that says ‘Mom’ covering my whole back.”

His father joined the laughter. It felt good to kid around with his parents, yet inside, a hollow feeling of sorrow remained. All this cheerful banter reminded him the nagging ache still lingered.

Yeah, that saying…you can’t go home again?

Bullshit. He needed this more than he’d thought he would.

***

The summer had barely started, but Kerrilynn Coleson decided this would be one break she would enjoy to the fullest. Others might have planned a trip somewhere interesting. Instead, Kerri decided the old family homestead in Bethany, Ontario would be refuge enough from life. The village was located twenty-two kilometers from her apartment in Peterborough, but far enough away to put a grinding year of teaching behind her.

The place didn’t look like much, a clapboard one-and-a-half story house decades old that, thanks to her uncles, stood in good repair. A little under one thousand square feet, it would be large enough for her needs. Different family members had used it as a home away from home. The comfy cottage was all hers for six weeks. She’d even activated the satellite dish for her stay. Since she’d arrived a few days ago, her time curling up on the well-used sofa and listening to the Nature Channel, had already done wonders for her frayed and frazzled nerves. Nothing like ocean waves to soothe a person. Closing her eyes, she’d imagined herself on a sandy beach, gulls cawing overhead, and a handsome man in very tight swim trunks massaging her feet. A girl could dream.

At thirty-five and a teacher for twelve years, she needed alone-time to regroup and refresh. A teacher shouldn’t feel this close to burnout, or so she told herself. But she did. The endless interference from administration, the apathy of most parents, and worse, the indifference of most of her students, had all disheartened her to the quick.

It was time to set a few priorities—like getting a life. The world spun on its axis outside her classroom, but Kerri never took much notice. She’d become increasingly isolated the last two years, a slow withdrawal from society. She’d even stopped calling her close friends. She would have to remedy that, but in the fall. This summer she wanted to be alone.

There had been no man in her life for quite a while. Nine months ago she’d had a boyfriend, if you could call him that. Their relationship had lasted five weeks and they’d had sex twice. The experience was so mediocre they’d parted on mutual boredom.

Finding a man to share her life with had fallen by the wayside years ago. All her passion had been funneled into teaching. Now she wondered if she should have diverted a little toward securing her future happiness.

Holding her mug full of tea, she stood on the front veranda and listened to the mourning doves cooing in the sugar maples that surrounded the property. There were few houses on this gravel road, and little human activity.
Just what the doctor ordered
.

Would Jax Teller walk by this morning? Kind of pathetic to be standing outside, hoping for a glimpse of the sexy, tattooed guy. He didn’t have blond hair like the biker character from the television show
Sons of Anarchy
, but he had the swagger down cold. And looked as gorgeous, from what she could observe. He was tall, lean, and muscled, the exact opposite of her. She could be categorized as short and spongy. Hell, one guy she’d dated had even thrown that phrase at her to hurt her when she’d broken up with him. The words had stung. Even all these years later, they’d never left her memory.

Kerri glanced at her watch.
Should be any minute
. He had walked by at this same time for five days straight. Each day she inched a little closer to the road. First, she’d watched him from inside, peering out behind the curtains. Two days later, she’d stood in the doorway, pretending to prune the dead leaves from the hanging basket of geraniums. Today, the front porch. Kerri toyed with the idea of an elaborate scheme involving painting the railings, but her search in the shed came up empty for the tools needed for her ruse. At this rate, she might make the end of the driveway by the first of August.

He came into view.
Damn
. The black sweats and black undershirt he wore hugged his lanky frame. He had to be over six feet tall. His well-formed, tattooed arms were on full display. Hard to make out what kind of tats. Even though she wasn’t a real fan of body art, she had to admit that on him, the ink did not stink.

His amazing hair—and she called it amazing because it appeared to be all different shades of black and brown—looked similar to the sheen and shade on the mink stole her grandmother used to own. She would bet his hair would feel as soft and silky. Long and flowing to his impressive shoulders, she itched to run her fingers through it. Today he wore it pulled back.

The side view showed a great profile, sharp edges, high cheekbones, a perfect blade of a nose and full, sensual lips. She raised her mug in appreciation at the exact moment he turned to look at her. He stopped in his tracks. Kerri froze, her mug still held up in full salute. A hot flush covered her body at his scrutiny. A wide smile broke out on his handsome face as he lifted a hand in greeting and then continued on his walk.