Westbound Sign ➵ Billie Joe Armstrong

New York

Collin

I shifted uncomfortably in the seat I'd been trapped in for the past thirty six hours. The torn leather cracked against my skin, pricking and scraping with every twitch. I let out a frustrated huff, glaring at the peeling interior like it had personally wronged me.

"Collin, chill. We're almost there," Erin said, her voice cutting through the silence with a mix of amusement and exasperation. Her fingers tapped a restless rhythm on the steering wheel, chipped black polish flashing in the dim afternoon light.

"I can't believe I let you drag me into this," I muttered, folding my arms across my chest.

"It's not that bad," she replied with a lopsided grin, making a sharp left that flung me against the car door.

I didn't respond. Instead, I reached into the side compartment and pulled out our scratched up copy of Nirvana's In Utero. Yhe pink disc still miraculously spinning after all abuse it tolerated. I slipped it into the stereo, and the opening chords of "Serve the Servants" growled through the speakers like an old friend.

Erin let out a squeal, her whole face lighting up like it was Christmas morning in a dive bar. I rolled my eyes but couldn't stop the smile creeping onto my face. I hummed along under my breath. The noise dulled the ache of the journey, at least a little.

We pulled up to a hotel that looked like it belonged in a different tax bracket. Twenty stories of glass and smug marble. I blinked up at it like it had just insulted my mother.

"What the fuck?" I asked, whipping around to face her. "You said this was just a roadside place."

She smirked and killed the engine with dramatic flair.

"I lied," she added with a wink, flinging the words over her shoulder like confetti.

Grumbling, I grabbed my worn duffel from the backseat and wrestled my beat up suitcase from the trunk. The wheels shrieked in protest across the pavement. I followed Erin into the lobby, dragging my stuff like it owed me money.

Inside, the floors gleamed like ice, and a chandelier the size of her room hung above a minimalist coffee table stacked with fashion magazines and lies. The air smelled like lavender and capitalism.

Erin didn't hesitate. She approached the front desk like she owned the place, adjusting her oversized Radiohead tee and running a hand through her wavy brown hair.

"Hello, welcome to Busch Hotel," the man at the counter greeted, the words strained through a too tight smile. His eyes scanned us, her ripped jeans, my oversized flannel, and barely hid the sneer.

"Hi," Erin chirped back, mimicking his plastic cheer. "Reservation under Scott. Erin Scott."

He typed stiffly, never looking up from the outdated monitor. After a pause, he gave a curt nod.

"Ah, yes. The double suite," he said, disappearing into a back room.

I leaned in close. "Did you catch the way he looked at us? Like we were about to rob the minibar."

The man returned, fast and silent, a subtle limp in his step. He pressed a metal key into Erin's palm, cold and worn, the room number barely visible.

"Top floor," he muttered, already turning back to the screen.

We didn't say thanks. We just moved. Erin thumbed the elevator button, and the doors creaked open like they resented the task.

"What time's the set you want to see?" I asked, leaning against the elevator wall, bones vibrating with its hum.