Free Rocker (Rockstar BBW Romance) by Laura Demare

inch of my body. “Stevie and the guys are still finishing up a few things. I’m wrecked. I had to come back and sleep for a few hours.” Karl was so damn hot, I couldn’t help but notice. He brushed past me with the same smile on his face and went down the stairs.
     
    Maybe the smile was a “you’re through” smile.
     
    I got into Stevie’s bed. I could smell him. It was only 10:30. I tossed and turned in the darkness for hours. Finally about 2am, I heard the guys come in. I pretended to be asleep as Stevie came into the room. He didn’t touch me, kiss me softly on the cheek, or anything. He just went back out of the room. I must have finally drifted off to sleep.
     
    I awoke a few hours later in the early dawn. Stevie was out like a rock next to me. I slipped from beneath the covers.
     
    A half an hour later, I slipped out of the brownstone, ready for work. Work didn’t start for 2 ½ hours, though. I got a coffee and a muffin and headed toward the train.
     
    I took the F on into Manhattan and road up to Central Park. The bright sun was blinding after being below ground for 30 minutes. I walked into the park.  Dozens of walkers, joggers, and bicyclist passed me as I made my way to the pond. I sat on a bench in the sun and my heart literally ached. What the hell did I think I was doing?
     
    “You’re making the most of the morning,” came an answer to my internal question. It came from an amazing looking guy who seemed to be about 70-years-old. He was rather large, about 6 feet, 200 pounds. He had a long white beard and a close-cropped head. In a white t-shirt and khaki shorts he looked to be in better shape than most men.
     
    “I’m trying, Sir.” I said to him.
     
    He slowed his walk. “I’m old,” he said. “I’ve found that when the going gets tough, it is best to forge ahead. I know it’s a cliché, but it makes things happen, and it makes you tough. You have to be tough, if you want a life. Forge ahead, Dear.” With those words he continued on up through the park. I noticed his shoes, they looked like leather slippers, and he seemed to glide across the sidewalk.
     
    Forge ahead, April, I told myself. I headed into work an hour early. There was plenty to do. I was a permanent temporary after all.
     
    My chutzpah drained, though. By 10:30 am, I had consumed 4 cups of coffee and felt wasted. Time was dragging by; my stomach and heart hurt, and Janet hadn’t even shown her face in the office.
     
    I looked at the clock again, 10:32. Maybe Madison Avenue was not the place for me. I fought the urge to leave the building, hop on a train, go back to Brooklyn, and confront Stevie. I fought the urge to put my head down on my desk and take a nap. It was agonizing. Forge ahead I told myself. I Googled it.
     
    Forge: to form or bring into being especially by an expenditure of effort.
    The old man was right. I needed to forge the life that I wanted for myself. I couldn’t rely on Stevie, Mom, or Tara to do it for me. I got up, went down the elevator, walked outside into the beautiful early fall air, briskly walked all the way around the city block, and then went back up to my desk and got to work.
     
    At lunchtime, I started looking in the “apartments to share” section of craigslist. I was energized.
     
    Sometime after noon, Janet finally showed up and dumped a bunch of work on me. I was thankful.
     
    Around 3pm, my cell buzzed, it was Stevie. I held my phone in my hand looking at it. On the third ring, I answered, “Hello.”
     
    “Hello, Love.”
     
    “Hi.”
     
    “Everything OK?” he asked.
     
    “Fine.”
     
    “April, what’s wrong?”
     
    “Just a little overwhelmed,” I sighed.
     
    “I’ve got to see you,” he said, “We’re taking the night off. Why don’t I meet you at your office when you get off?”
     
    A couple shards of my heart reformed. Oh, Stevie. “OK,” I said with a slight hint of cheer in my voice.
     
    “Great.” I gave him my address and told