Motel 6 [James Cook fanfiction]

1

The roads were all starting to look the same. Another sign. Another traffic light. Another moron who doesn't know how to drive. Another shitty diner at the side of the road.

It was meaningless. Pointless. It had become a routine. Maybe that's why it was pretty fucking stupid to keep driving in the first place. 

The twenty-two year old guy looked in the side mirror. The amount of cars driving behind him was enormous; after almost one year, he still hadn't gotten used to the congested American roads. 

When he thought of what happened one year ago, he was unable to stop them. The flashbacks would haunt him, until he got to the point where he left the country. Where he had called one of his connections, to get him the fuck out of the country as soon as possible. The guy had agreed, ofcourse, in exchange for Cook becoming a drugsdealer once again. It was tricky and stupid; after everything that had happened with Louie, he had almost somehow promised himself not to go down that road again. But what else did he got? Who else did he have? He was a fucking fugitive, involved with atleast 2 deadly cases. And he wasn't ready for that shit yet. Not yet. Prison could wait.

He needed to drive first. Drive, until he couldn't see any more cars. Drive, until his hands would start to ache from the steering wheel. 

When New York popped up on the road signs, he waited for the right exit so he could leave the highway behind him. The big city seemed his best shot on getting new gas, food and an overnight stay. Perhaps he had lost the guys that were following him by now; his 'friend' in London who had managed to get him the new ID, ticket and car hadn't been happy with him, when Cook hadn't met up with his connection in Los Angeles. By closing one door, the one of the drug dealing shit, he had opened another one by refusing to work for his guy. Fuck it, he scoffed. Fuck them all. They ain't seen shit.

Cook halted by a motel close by the city. The skyscrapers illuminated the night sky and he wondered how many of them were nightclubs. Maybe five years ago, he would've been all pumped up about New York city's nightlife. But now, he couldn't give a single shit about it. It was useless. Even though he was still James fucking Cook, for some reason it felt like this was all just a daydream; just a body of flesh, bones and blood trying to survive. He used to live in fear, but now it was just an illusion somewhere in the back of his head. It didn't matter anymore. Even if the guys would find him and kill him, it wouldn't hurt anybody; Cook had no one, and his parents would never find out nor would they care if they did.

The door of the motel opened with a loud squeak, and a strange musty smell welcomed him. He adjusted the backpack and followed the "reception" sign, that was written with red neon letters, flickering on and off. Once he found the desk, he was greeted by the chubby man sitting behind it. "Good evening." he rasped blankly, while he flicked the cigarette in his callused hand. Cook nodded once in return. "Room for one, I suppose?" the man asked in an uninterested tone. "Yes." Cook confirmed coolly. The man offered him a key and gestured to the hall on his left. Cook didn't give him the opportunity to finish his story, and grabbed the key and walked to the room instead. 

Once he was inside the room, he allowed himself to have a smoke. He threw the backpack on the small bed and grabbed the pack of cigarettes out of his leather jacket. When he found his lighter, he lighted the cigarette and inhaled deeply. The smoke burned its way through his lungs and he enjoyed the scraping feeling in his throat, so it would distract him from the thoughts racing through his mind.

And Cook wondered, what the fuck he was going to do next.