Rock The Wolfe by Karyn Gerrard

 
     
     
Chapter One
     
     
    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