Westbound Sign ➵ Billie Joe Armstrong

Felony Level Hangouts

Collin

The taxi pulled away with a sputter and a flick of taillights, leaving Billie and I standing under the hotel's flickering awning like two ghosts returning to the scene of a crime.

The lobby was dead quiet, but the air buzzed with that eerie sense of someone holding their breath. Somewhere above us, I was sure a hotel manager was pacing a ruined room with a clipboard and a blood pressure monitor.

"Back to the battlefield," Billie muttered, adjusting his jacket collar like armor.

The elevator creaked as it hauled us up, and by the time we reached my floor, both of us looked like we'd been dragged through a Nirvana bside.

I unlocked the door to my room, and it groaned open like it was bracing for round two.

Inside, the air was warm and thick with leftover smoke and something vaguely sweet, probably spilled soda or Erin's perfume. The lighting was dim, one lamp barely hanging on.

Erin was curled up on the far bed, half buried nder a blanket, clutching her Polaroid camera like it was a teddy bear. Her leg was slung across Tre's back, who was sprawled out facedown across the floor like he'd fallen from the sky.

Billie stifled a laugh. "God, it's like someone dropped a pot filled snow globe."

"Tre," I whispered, kneeling beside him. "Hey. Wake up."

He groaned into the carpet. "Five more minutes and a cigarette."

"Tre," Billie said, nudging him with the toe of his boot. "I think Dave's in town. We were bailed out."

Tre lifted his head with all the grace of a half dead possum. "Oh shit."

"Yeah," Billie said. "On the label's jet. Probably halfway to an aneurysm."

Tre sat up slowly, blinking like he'd just been born. "You think he brought snacks?"

Billie and I both groaned in unison.

I flopped onto the empty bed, my body suddenly heavy, the adrenaline burned out. My head hit the pillow and it was like the whole night fell out of me at once.

"I'm just gonna... lay here... for like... five seconds," I mumbled.

I was asleep before I even heard them answer.

...

Across the hall, the chaos was brewing like a thunderstorm. Dave had landed. The hotel staff was circling the destroyed room with legal pads and digital cameras. The label's assistant was on her second espresso and third meltdown. Dave's assistant was scribbling on her notepad like there was no tomorrow, crunching numbers.

Mike was wide awake, pacing the hall like a man awaiting sentencing, mouthing over and over, "It wasn't even my idea."

Billie supported Tre with his arm, trying to pick up the clearly drunk green haired drummer. He looked back, watching the soft rise and fall of Collin's breathing, hair messy and face smudged from everything they'd just survived. He leaned Tre against him, grunting at the weight, shaking his head, and muttered:

"Oh, we are so fucked."

...

There was pounding on the door.

Not knocking - pounding - like someone meant to break it off the hinges. I sat bolt upright, heart slamming against my ribs like it was trying to evacuate.

Erin groaned beside me, her face mashed into a pillow. "Tell whoever that is to eat a brick."

The pounding came again.