Westbound Sign ➵ Billie Joe Armstrong

Saints & Caffeine

Collin

I woke up to the sound of someone snoring like a chainsaw.

The floor beneath me was rough and cold, the stiff motel carpet scratchy against my cheek. My back ached, my hair was tangled, and my arm had fallen asleep somewhere between Billie's hoodie and his ribcage.

It was... not glamorous.

I blinked up at the ceiling, disoriented for a second. Then I glanced to the side and found Billie lying next to me, passed out, one arm flopped over his eyes like the light had betrayed him. His mouth was slightly open. A strand of hair stuck to his cheek.

Tre was starfish sprawled across the mattress, one foot dangling off the edge, mouth open in a way that suggested he'd been mid sentence before unconsciousness took him. Erin and Mike were tangled on the other bed like human spaghetti. Her makeup smudged into the pillow. His sock on the floor next to a half empty bag of chips.

I snorted. "So much for slow burn."

Billie stirred slightly, but didn't wake. I gently untangled myself and sat up, rolling my shoulders. Everything creaked. My neck, my spine, my soul.

A glance at the clock told me it was just after eight. Somehow, that felt both too early and too late.

I padded over to the bed and poked at Erin's shoulder.

She groaned. "What?"

"We need to shower."

Her eyes cracked open. "Did we die? Is this hell?"

"You're wearing leather pants," I whispered. "That can't be comfortable after sleeping on a motel mattress."

Erin made a noise that sounded like regret and resignation having a baby.

I turned back to glance at the room. It smelled like weed, sweat, and leftover adrenaline. Billie shifted in his sleep again, murmuring something about eggs, and I smiled before quietly grabbing our overnight bags from where they'd been tossed in the corner.

We tiptoed toward the door like kids sneaking out of summer camp.

"I can't believe we didn't even go to our own room," Erin whispered once we were outside, sunlight assaulting our eyes.

I squinted at the too blue sky. "We really are groupie scum."

"Shut up. That was the best night of my life."

We headed down the cracked pavement toward the second building of the motel, keys to a room we never touched still jingling in my hand. Our costumes were wrinkled. My boots felt like they'd fused to my feet. Erin's corset had shifted in a way that screamed war wounds.

But we were both smiling.

And the air felt different today - like the night had shifted something. Like the slow burn hadn't combusted but turned into a steady flame.

Back in the room we actually paid for, I tossed the bags on the bed and flopped down dramatically.

Erin collapsed beside me. "We are disgusting."

"We are radiant and iconic," I corrected.

"We smell like band boys."

I grinned. "That's just success."

She reached over and stole the remote from the nightstand, flipping on the TV. Some infomercial about kitchen knives blared at us like punishment. I didn't care.

Because Billie had fallen asleep next to me.

And I was still glowing from the way he looked at me before the night ended.