Neon Regret Chapter 1: The Turnpike to Nowhere

The Honda Civic smelled like a locker room that had been marinating in Red Bull and cheap cologne for three days.

We were somewhere on the New Jersey Turnpike, a stretch of asphalt that seemed to exist in a perpetual state of grey twilight. To our left, the industrial smokestacks of Elizabeth churned out white plumes that merged with the overcast sky. To our right, an endless blur of marshland and power lines.

"You can't be a virgin forever, Owen. It’s un-American. It’s practically treason against the Founding Fathers."

Mike was shouting from the driver’s seat, trying to be heard over the bass-heavy dubstep remix rattling the car’s blown-out speakers. He was drumming his hands on the steering wheel, fueled by a mixture of caffeine and the manic energy of a twenty-year-old on Spring Break.

I was wedged in the backseat, my knees pressed against the cooler. I was the "Third Wheel" of this expedition. Mike and Jason were roommates, gym rats, and the kind of guys who used the word "legendary" to describe a ham sandwich. I was the quiet one. The English major. The guy who brought a paperback copy of The Great Gatsby to a party school because I preferred reading about other people’s tragic parties rather than attending my own.

"I'm not a virgin," I lied, my voice flat, staring out the window at a billboard for a personal injury lawyer. "I just don't think we need to pay for it. It feels... transactional."

"Everything is transactional, bro!" Jason twisted around in the passenger seat, grinning like a shark. He was wearing neon wayfarers, even though the sun had set an hour ago. "College is a transaction. You pay tuition, you get a degree. Dating is a transaction. You buy dinner, you get affection. This? This is just cutting out the middleman. It’s efficient."

"It's a massage," Mike corrected him, checking his hair in the rearview mirror. "A Happy Ending massage. It’s cultural. It’s relaxation. We’ve been studying for midterms for two weeks. We deserve to be pampered."

I didn't want to be pampered. I wanted to be back in my dorm room, listening to The National, staring at my phone, and agonizing over whether or not to text Sarah.

Sarah.

Even thinking her name made my chest ache. We grew up together in Oak Creek, West Virginia, a town so small you could hold your breath and drive through the whole thing. She was studying nursing at UVA now; I was at Rutgers. We were trapped in that purgatory between "childhood best friends" and "something more." We texted every day—memes, song lyrics, complaints about the cafeteria food. But I had never made a move. I was terrified that if I tried to cross that line, the ice would break, and I’d drown.

"We’re going to The Red Velvet," Mike announced, swerving across three lanes of traffic to hit the exit ramp for Atlantic City. "I did the research. Deep web forums, Reddit threads. It’s legit. No cops. Clean. And the talent? Top tier."

"Top tier," Jason echoed, fist-bumping the air.

My stomach churned. It wasn't just nerves; it was a profound sense of wrongness. I felt like a character in a tragedy who sees the cliff coming but can't take his foot off the gas.

We hit the Atlantic City limits as night fully descended. The casinos rose up from the boardwalk like glittering, electric monoliths—The Borgata, Caesar’s, The Hard Rock. They promised glamour. They promised luck.

But Mike didn't drive toward the lights. He turned the wheel sharply, guiding us away from the ocean, away from the tourists, and into the shadow of the city. We drove past pawn shops with barred windows, liquor stores with flickering neon signs, and rows of houses that looked like they were holding their breath.

"Here we go, boys," Mike whispered, killing the engine.

We were parked in a cracked concrete lot behind a strip mall. The only light came from a buzzing, fuchsia sign above a blacked-out door: THE RED VELVET SPA.

The silhouette of a woman on the sign looked less like a pin-up girl and more like a crime scene chalk outline.

"I'll stay in the car," I said, gripping the door handle. "I'll read. You guys go."

"No way," Jason opened my door and dragged me out by the sleeve of my jacket. "One for all, all for one. You’re not ruining the vibe, Owen. You’re getting a massage, you’re getting released, and you’re going to thank us."

I stood on the pavement. The air smelled of salt, exhaust, and rotting garbage. I looked at the black door. It felt like a mouth waiting to swallow me.