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.
