Blinded by rage, Sherrie doesn't even wait for Dennis to hand her her walking papers before storming out of the club.
"What makes you think you could just waltz in here and play the hero, Drew Bowie?"
They didn't wish on stars anymore; it didn't make sense to ask favors from what they wanted to be.
"Y'ever think these tiny-record things are gonna be popular?"
Another rejection letter in one hand, and another bill in the other.
Drew likes to imagine what his MTV masterpiece would look like: lots of explosions, dry ice, leather, wildcats, and maybe Sherrie looking cute on the hood of his car.
A harsh reality lay under the glitter of a Los Angeles that promised to make dreams come true, and Drew and Sherrie were learning the hard way.
WHISKEY AND RUM
Sherrie holds back her tears as she approaches another customer who smells of alcohol and lechery.
The one time Sherrie asked about Drew's family, the simple way he said "Dad was in 'Nam," somehow told her all she needed to know.
Her dress was a frothy nightmare rescued from Goodwill and his suit was a leftover from Lonny's "skinny days" (and still had to be taken in), but it was still one of the top days of their lives.
All the love for music Drew had forgotten came back to him as he gently crooned "Happy Birthday" to his hour-old child.
Drew would probably kill her if she told anyone else, but he actually had the daintiest sneezes.
"Of course I'm going to think your version's better," Sherrie says with good nature as she changes the station to keep from hearing the butchered cover.
Fame was an inferno and love was a flickering candle; one was exciting but dangerous, and one offered no surprises but was comforting in its familiarity.
He's out of breath by the time he reaches the train station, but the effort's all worth it.
"I don't feel so good...can we go back please?" Sherrie murmurs, not bothering to mention the shattering effect Drew's words just had on her heart.
"Small-town girl and a city boy, I'd say that's our song."
Sherrie's head felt as if it was floating away from her body; the guilty thoughts of Drew were her helium as Jaxx kept pawing her.
On slow afternoons, they'll sneak onto the club's balcony and watch the "beautiful people" up and down the Strip, knowing it'll be their turn one of these days.
For all the trouble it'd caused them, sometimes they wished rock'n'roll never existed.
The deeper the silence after a song, the louder the applause.
To some people it's weird, to Sherrie it's soothing to twirl the straw in her Slurpee and spell her name.
They kept their eyes on the ultrasound while the question was directed at the doctor, "Boy or girl?"
There were no two worse words to put in a fight than "just friends."
"You're giving up music for a girl??"
"So, um...you like Van Halen?" Drew managed while his fingers stumbled with tuning the guitar.
If not for the guys making her laugh by (likely fabricated, but it was the thought that counted) stories about the wierdos who'd come to the Bourbon Room in its heyday, sweeping before the night crowd would drive her insane.
"Sherrie, we're supposed to be work- gah!" Drew leapt from the broom handle poking his leg, and quickly grabbed another one for a giggle-filled sword fight until Dennis came back in and told them to knock it off.
She knows Sapphire isn't really that dancer's name, and wonders if the reason she changed it is as sad as the reason she's here.
They can't keep their jaws from dropping at the Germans' offer to buy the club; they'd only just gotten here, how could their plans have fallen apart so quickly?
Nine arguments out of ten (OK, maybe seven), all Drew has to do is cutely curl the side of his mouth and be quickly forgiven.
She didn't expect herself to grieve for the man forced to fire her, but all the same, Drew kept an arm around her shoulder for support as the preacher continued his remarks on Dennis' life.
"No more stupid misunderstandings," Drew promised between kisses.
It was the oldest rock star love story ever, the guy singing the specially-written song for his girl, but cliches weren't always bad.
"Yeah, of course I'm related to ol' Ziggy Stardust, I just thought I'd make things hard for myself and be a busboy!"
Drew wrinkled his face with disgust as he stepped into the Venus; even the Bourbon Room was classier than this joint, and that was certainly saying something.
Sherrie quickly learned it was best not to ask why it seemed Lonny would talk to no one in particular at times.
They didn't even bother looking at LA one last time before the van pulled away for Glendale.
Slurpees weren't quite as romantic as milkshakes, but it was still sweet of Drew to put two straws in the cup.
Loneliness in the City of Angels was the most painful of all.
"No wonder you wanted to leave," Drew remarked when Sherrie pointed out Kansas on the map.
They more they tried staying neutral while working together after the disaster that called itself a date, the more they came off like ice sculptures.
The sunlight touches Sherrie's hair and brings out every subtle but brilliant shade of gold.
"Anywhere on Planet Earth is still too close," Drew said upon hearing of Jaxx's self-imposed exile.
He could wear the goofy track suits and bling, he could go with the name change if he had to, but he absolutely drew the line at going blond.
The sunset dips low on the Strip's horizon, and their hands link while they watch the comforting glow.
"I'm not trying to be your hero, I just care, goddammit!"
Blinded by his frustration, Drew considers himself the better person; he may be sacrificing artistic integrity for money, but at least he wasn't taking his clothes off for strangers.
A hollow victory in the long run, but Sherrie takes great satisfaction in planting her stiletto heel right in Stacee Jaxx's arrogant face.
Sherrie shivers in the rain that seemed to start the moment she left the club building for good, never feeling more like a loser in her life.