Rock The Wolfe (3 page)

His eyes sparkled with amusement. “Okay, props to Corey. He didn’t suck. But Platinum Blonde?” He hesitated, drew a sour look on his face, and shook his head. “How about the nineties? Our Lady Peace, Matthew Good Band, The Tea Party, Blue Rodeo, Barenaked Ladies….”

“The Tragically Hip!”

He nodded. “Absolutely. Now, the two-thousands. Three Days Grace, Finger Eleven, Theory of a Deadman…. How about WolfePak?”

“I don’t listen to alternative rock. Isn’t that what they were? Or is it classified as grunge? Not sure of the difference. I think I’ve heard a few songs on the radio, but they didn’t do anything for me.”

His smile disappeared. What had she said? His posture stiffened, and his mouth drew into a taut line.

“Grunge is considered to be more depressing in its tone, though I suppose a few of my songs leaned that way,” he answered quietly.

His
songs? Oh. My. God. Wolfe Phelan. She’d never made the connection. Of course! The tats, leather pants, and the long hair should have been a dead giveaway. As well as the sexy, killing-me-softly voice.

“It’s hard to talk with my foot in my mouth.” She smiled wanly. “No insult meant. I really don’t listen to much alternative. I thought I’d read recently your group broke up?”

***

She’d no idea who he was.
Not sure whether I feel relived or insulted
. He’d brought up the subject of music because it was such a part of his life. He’d hoped it had been part of hers. His body vibrated with bliss when she started naming off Canadian rock acts through the decades. As he said, a woman after his own heart.

To her credit, when she learned his real identity, she did not move into false praise or gush mode. She stood her ground and voiced her opinion. His respect for her rose a few more notches.

“It was a mutual decision. No acrimonious split. The guys took a vote and I respected their verdict.”

They faced each other on the sofa. Kerri’s eyes softened in sympathy and understanding.

“You weren’t part of the vote?”

He shook his head. “I was the reason the vote had been taken in the first place.”

He stopped, not sure he wanted to talk about his meltdown to a virtual stranger when he hadn’t even spoken to his parents about it in any depth as yet.

She laid her hand on his arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. A torrent of hot flame moved though his body. Christ. It had been a long time since a woman had touched him, but Jesus, he’d never had that kind of incendiary reaction from the mere whisper of contact, at least not since puberty.

“You don’t have to tell me anymore. How about a Pepsi? I’m going to have one.”

He shrugged. “Yeah. And thanks.”

Kerri leaned in and kissed his cheek. The shock of it resounded through his blood, heating it to the boiling point. He clasped her arms, not allowing her to back away. They were nose to nose.
Fuck it
. He captured her lips with his. He swallowed her gasp of surprise and delved deeper. Her response hardened his cock to the point of pain. Nice to know it still functioned, as he’d had doubts.

Kerri opened and let him in, meeting his tongue in a sensual dance of desire. He moved one of his hands up to clasp the back of her neck, angling her head for a more concentrated penetration.

She tasted of sugared honey, a hot sweetness that had him ready to blow apart. The temperature in the small room shot up. Their breathing became ragged.

Too much. Overload.

With a decided reluctance, he pulled away but still held her arm and neck. Kerri’s eyes were wide with astonishment. He got that.

“I…I….” She stuttered adorably.

Kerri cradled his face in her hands, her thumbs gently brushing his cheeks. She kissed him—hard. Every muscle in his body felt as if it had atrophied. He tasted the hunger, the yearning, and the need in her kiss. Fuck it all to hell and back, he felt it as well.

Their foreheads touched, and then she pulled back, laying small, concentrated kisses along his scruffy facial hair and jawline, ending on his nose.

“Wolfe.”

Wonderment sounded in her voice. Yeah. All these years writing songs about love and desire—and hell, sex—he knew nothing. Her kisses devastated him.

She stood, myriad emotions crossing her flushed face. Her swollen, well-kissed lips parted in surprise and then turned into a sexy smile.

“I’ll get the drinks.”

“Lots of ice in mine. A. Lot.”

A soft laugh left her throat. As she exited the room, Wolfe contemplated making his escape. No, he wouldn’t run. Not from this. Not from the most insanely fucktastic kisses he had ever had.

Life had suddenly become a whole lot more interesting.

There is a moment, during a concert, when you reach musical nirvana. Everything clicks. Your voice slides up the scale, hitting every note, causing chills to ripple down your own back. The guys behind you—your guys—are so locked into your vibe, you become one entity. Moving and playing as one being. Sometimes, your cock hardens from the pulsating excitement surrounding you. The first few rows are all you can see. Everyone else fades into an electric fog of light and sound, surrounding you with love and energy, fuelling your performance.

On stage, you are God. Tens of thousands of people are screaming your name. You work the boards like a runway model, posing and posturing. Let them see your hard-on. Thrust it toward them and listen to them shout. Play to the front-row bunnies; let them think the promise of sex is wrapped around the lyrics of the song. Sing only to them. They flash you their tits. You grow harder. The reverb vibrates through your whole body, sparking your nerve endings. Then it happens.

You reach fucking paradise. Darkness covers you like a cloak. You are all powerful. Everything is revolving around you, feeding off your raw supremacy. You know instinctively in your gut that you will never reach this peak again in your life. You savor it. You revel in it. You remember it. You straddle the stage and arena as if you were a Rock Godzilla. You rule. And no one can fucking take that away from you. Ever
.

Wolfe set the pencil on the table and stared at the notepad. Dr. Sampson had told him to start a journal. At first he’d balked, but writing his inner thoughts down on paper had become cathartic. It helped to pinpoint where his stress lay. Nothing in his life came close to being on stage. Everything else paled by comparison. How could he adjust to a normal life? No wonder some rockers still toured into their sixties and seventies. The rush was addictive. He remembered him and the guys laughing at Mick Jagger and the rest, calling them “The Strolling Bones,” but damn, these guys were doing what they loved, and until they dropped, by the looks of it. They made a shitload of cash along the way. But the Stones were the exception. Not many groups lasted decades, touring, making the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame while collecting the old-age pension.

WolfePak had been lucky they managed eight years and three albums. Their debut, “Chambers of my Heart” had gone triple-platinum in Canada and platinum in the States. Their subsequent two albums had respectable sales.

He missed it. All of it. Did not know how he could ever get it back, or if he even wanted to.

Wolfe turned his thoughts to Kerri, the cute elementary school teacher. They’d had a drink, talked a little more, and agreed to go for a walk the next morning. The more they’d talked, the more he relaxed. He hadn’t kissed her when he left. He didn’t dare. He liked her, a lot.
Watch it, dude
.

The basement door creaked open.

“Wolfe, you decent? Can I come down?”

“Sure, Dad, come on ahead.”

Jake Phelan walked into the rec room. Even in his mid-fifties, the man looked remarkably fit. Close to six feet tall and still in relatively fine shape, he supposed his father would qualify as a silver fox. Both his parents were good-looking. He silently thanked them for the genetics. Too bad they couldn’t have any more kids after him. His mother had had a difficult birth with him. When he had been younger, he lamented the fact he didn’t have any siblings, but all in all, his childhood had been rock-solid. As deep as the doctors and counselors attempted to dig in his brain, trying to find a reason in his upbringing for his current anxiety-ridden state, they’d found nothing.

His father took a seat in front of him. “How are you, Wolfe?”

“You mean at this moment or in general?”

“You haven’t mentioned the divorce. Your mom and I do go on the Internet, you know.”

Wolfe couldn’t tell if a slight admonishment lay within the statement, but he’d take it. He should’ve called his parents. Not that they knew Janice very well. They had only met three times and the first had been at their small wedding.

“It was a mistake.” He exhaled. “I suppose I got tired of looking for what you and mom have. I wrote about it in my songs, but never experienced it. Thought I could force it. I settled. Big blunder on my part. Thing is, I wanted to give it go. I stayed faithful. Too bad she didn’t. When I got sick, she bailed. There was a prenup, so she didn’t get much. We were drifting apart anyway.”

He had felt nothing when she left. He lay in his room for two days listening to Pink Floyd’s “Comfortably Numb” over and over on an endless loop. By the time he had crawled out of bed, he’d put Janice and his disaster of a marriage behind him.

“I am sorry, Wolfe. Never settle. You have so much love to give. You can hear it in your music; it’s so poignant and real. If I haven’t told you lately, I’m damned proud of you. We both are. All that you have accomplished. The man that you are. Couldn’t ask for a better son.”

A tight ball of emotion lodged in his throat. His eyes moistened. It took a moment before he could speak.

“Thanks. Same for you and Mom.” He picked up the pencil and twirled it between his fingers. “I know I haven’t said much about what happened. I haven’t gone public, and thankfully, it has stayed out of the media. I’ve been diagnosed with acute stress disorder.”

He didn’t mention the post-traumatic stress syndrome. No need to worry them further.

“Are you on anything?” his father asked, concern showing on his face.

Here it comes.
Tell him
. He should wait until both his parents were here, but if he did not confess it now, he never would.

“I was on Ativan for the anxiety and panic attacks. I became addicted. I overdosed on them a few months back. I’m free and clear of them, though it took a while. A few days’ hospitalization and treatment. I’m in therapy right now.”

His father stood. “Jesus, Wolfe! You went through this alone? Why the hell didn’t you call us?”

His father’s tone was angry but worried as well.

“Sit down, Dad. It’s not as awful as it sounds. I took nine at once. I wanted to sleep that bad. Luckily, Kevin came by. I told him and he took me to the hospital right away. It wouldn’t have been fatal. There’s no lasting damage. After that, I refused to go on any other pill. Counseling is working for now.”

His father flopped back in the chair and ran his hand through his hair.

“How did it come to this?”

Wolfe laid the pencil on the table. “It had been building for a few years. It became so terrible I couldn’t function as part of the group. How could it go on? I write the songs and am the lead singer. The thought of writing music and performing had me a total wreck. Fainting, couldn’t breathe…. all that.”

“You hid it well. Your few visits here, you never let on.”

“My physiatrist suggested I visit for a couple of weeks, and it’s helped. Listen, just being with you guys is more potent than any pill or counseling session. I should’ve found help sooner. I thought I could handle it. It got worse.”

“Stay as long as you want. Do you have idea what you’ll do next?”

Wolfe shrugged. “I’m a thirty-two-year-old university dropout. Thanks to smart investments, I never have to work again.” He sighed. “I’ve no idea what to do next.”

His father reached for the notepad. Wolfe didn’t stop him. He read it and then laid it on the table.

“Maybe you should write. This is damned good. But you know that, you’ve written incredible songs. Become strictly a songwriter. Or be a producer. Music is your life, Wolfe. You can find a way to make it work. Take your time, find your path, and know your mother and I will walk on it with you.”

The men stood and embraced. Wolfe needed to hear this. He fed on the strength, accepting the love and support offered. A warm, comforting feeling covered Wolfe as his dad pulled him closer. Now he had to put action behind his father’s encouraging words.

***

Wolfe Phelan had no sooner stepped out of her driveway to head home when Kerri scrambled to fire up her laptop. First thing she did was Google him. There were lots of pictures of him in concert. Sexy. Passionate. A few at awards shows. Wolfe with different women, and none of them were the typical Hollywood-skinny she would have expected. How interesting. She clicked on one picture. Janice MacKinnon. She appeared in more shots with Wolfe than any other woman.

She Googled Janice. Of course, model. The woman was stunningly gorgeous. Talk about a stereotype and now his ex-wife. A ripple of pleasure rolled through her at that revelation. How surprising to learn Janice’s modeling career had been of the full-figured variety. Of course, full-figure in the fashion world meant the model had the body shape of the average woman instead of a stick insect.

She furrowed her brow. Was this guy a chubby chaser? Was that why he’d walked into her driveway and spoken to her? An uneasy feeling rolled through her insides. Kerri enjoyed sex, but fetishisms left her clammy.

Sitting back in her chair, she folded her arms and stared at the picture of Wolfe in black leather, his arm around the model-trophy wife. Their smiles seemed phony, or was she reading too much into a snapshot?

She couldn’t deny the intensity of the kiss they had shared. What had possessed her to grab his handsome face and all but inhale him? God, Wolfe Phalen tasted so damned good.