Rock The Wolfe Read Free

disappearing through the brush along the side of the road.
    So much for that. An abrupt departure. Maybe offering the drink had been too forward. Regardless, she’d never see him again. He’d no doubt change his walking route just to avoid her. Despite his outward appearance—the long hair, the sparse, scraggly, barely there goatee, and tats—her first impression had been a good one. Had a brain in his head, at least. Anyway, whatever his occupation, biker, trucker, or basement dweller, he would be too much to take on. Why she’d felt that, she had no idea. Maybe it was the leg that would not stay still and the stark weariness she had seen in his mesmerizing eyes. Besides, she never dated a guy whose ass was skinner than hers, no matter how fine it looked.
    With a slight chuckle, she headed inside.
     
    ***
     
    He had to escape. He couldn’t sit there a moment longer. The conversation had grown too personal and had brought on the beginnings of a panic attack. His leg spasmed, his breathing grew heavy, and his cheeks flushed. Sweat had popped out on his forehead and that familiar, dizzy feeling overcame him. The last thing he wanted was to faint at her feet. He had done that in front of enough people.
    He liked talking to her, and it brought on the beginnings of an attack? What the fuck? Would he never be able to have a normal conversation with anyone, especially a woman? The sad fact remained that he had not been alone with a female in any way in months.
    He walked faster. He’d take a circuitous way back to his parents’. He needed to calm down. He inhaled, savoring the fresh air, and then blew out a cleansing and calming breath.
    Why had he introduced himself as Jake? He never went by his first name. Since he’d been a kid, he always went by Wolfe. Was he trying to be someone else? Didn’t want her to recognize him?
    Maybe he should’ve stayed in Toronto. The physiatrist seemed to know his stuff, so when the doctor had suggested visiting his parents for a few weeks would help in his recovery, Wolfe went along with the recommendation.
    He wasn’t manic depressive. What a relief. Nor was he schizoid. It had taken his overdose of Ativan for the doctors and specialists to agree on a diagnosis. He had post-traumatic stress syndrome. He had been skeptical at first. What fucking traumatic event did he have in his life to trigger this? Another doctor said he had acute stress disorder. Whatever. Stress seemed to be the common denominator. The thought of recording music and going on stage and performing reduced him to a quivering mass of exposed nerves.
    He couldn’t function. Everything broke apart. His life froze, and so did he. He felt nothing. A numbness that only recently started to recede had gripped him tight. He had not meant to overdose on Ativan, not that he would have died, anyway. The drug had ceased to be effective. He’d kept taking more and more, until one night he’d shoved around nine of the tiny pink tablets down his throat because he wanted to sleep so goddamned bad.
    That had been the straw that broke his marriage’s back. Janice had had enough. Good riddance. They hadn’t been getting along anyway. The divorce had been granted two months ago. The lawyers had used his breakdown as the cause to get it pushed through quickly. Thankfully, Janice wasn’t able to take him to the cleaners as she’d signed a prenuptial agreement. Smartest thing he’d ever done. When he’d married her, something told him it wouldn’t last. She had been arm candy. All rock stars should have an ex-model wife had been his thought. All part of the package. Proved how shallow he had become.
    After his late-night Ativan meltdown, he had refused to go on any more drugs. Fuck serotonin reuptake inhibitors and the doctors who prescribed them. Instead, he’d chosen intense counseling. For the last five months he had seen counselors and physiatrists two or three times a week. It helped. Dr. Sampson agreed he needed to visit