Joan cried for days. As soon as she was alone, behind closed doors, she would collapse in a puddle of her own misery. Her body ached by the time she was through; her chest rumbled with the sadness and the anger like thunder and she felt as though every wound she'd ever had was torn open. She was in pain. Angry pain. Pain that ripped through her body like a tornado, sucking her in. She walked around, her shoulders slumped, head down, hands in her pocket, hiding her face with her hair. Her leather jacket and studded belts, her black boots and chains around her neck acted like armour, attempting to protect herself from all the shitty things out there. She swore she would never feel happy again. She was beginning to really fucking hate herself, and tried everything to fix it. She tried drugs, she tried booze, but in the end all it seemed to do was blur her nights and days together to the point where she wasn't even sure what she was doing anymore.

Of course, the Runaways had to continue; the show must go on. But it was a charade. Joan knew it, Sandy knew it, and Lita just didn't care. Jackie had left after Cherie, replaced by another poor bassist who had no idea what she was getting herself into. It was just a job now, a contractually binding job that they had to fulfill.

On the night of her 18th birthday, Joan could feel the Runaways fading. She wanted to cling to the band so badly, but who was a runaway at 18? She was legal now. And no one would take her seriously. She cried when she got home, hot, drunken tears that nearly made her sick. She missed Cherie, which made her angry. Livid. She hated Cherie, hated that she left, that she had betrayed her. She had broken her promise. But it pained Joan to think ill of Cherie. She had been her best friend, her confidant, her lover. She just wished she could go back in time, to the night they first met, when everything was so hopeful, so exciting. Now, it was a fucking mess.

It had been three years since the end of the Runaways, five since Cherie left. Joan looked back on that time fondly, but she still felt the sting of betrayal and resentment. She was proud of everything they had accomplished, damn proud, but she had moved on. She was starting another band - just her and three guys who understood her vision and shared her passion for rock and roll. She was finally starting to feel honestly happy again, as tough as it was out there for a woman with an electric guitar in her hand. But she didn't care; she hadn't given up before and she sure as hell wasn't going to give up now. She was Joan fucking Jett and she could do anything.

As for Cherie, she never really forgave herself for what she did to Joan, and the band. She didn't regret leaving because she knew she had to get out, but she did regret the way she went about it. She should have told Joan how she was feeling, shouldn't have tried to cover it up with fake smiles and popping pills. Not that that had stopped her now. Her drug addiction was getting a little out of control, to the point that she was worried about not having much money because she was struggling to get enough cash together to feed her addiction. Pills were the least of it - it was the coke that she really wanted. She felt so out of touch with the world, so numb that any thought or trace of pain was instantly diminished with another line, another bump. She was chronically mixed up with the wrong kind of people, particularly the wrong kind of men, and it seemed to be a never ending vicious circle of drugs, money and sex. She was so young and she was already a creep. Rock bottom didn't seem possible for Cherie at this point, it just seemed like she could keep spiraling down forever.

She stood in the small linens shop that she worked in, feeling twitchy and slightly ill as she folded the white, cotton napkins into a neat little pile on the shelf. She bopped her head slightly to the song on the radio, feeling like perhaps she had heard it before. Or perhaps it was just the singer's voice that sounded so familiar. As the song came to an end, she heard the dj re-introduce it as "I love rock and roll" by Joan Jett and the Blackhearts. Cherie's ears perked up, her heart skipping a beat at the sound of her name. The dj said Joan was in the studio with him and introduced her politely. Cherie heard Joan's raspy voice, her cool, confident laugh, and her skin tingled. She felt goosebumps shoot up her arms as she listened to Joan talk about her life now. An overwhelming feeling of sadness came over Cherie as she remembered how much she truly missed and loved Joan. The dj said they were accepting callers and without hesitation Cherie waltzed over to the phone and picked it up, dialing the phone number. She got through surprisingly quickly.

"Hello caller, this is DJ Danny and Joan Jett! What's your question?"

"H-hi, Joanie," Cherie said nervously.

Joan's face dropped in disbelief as Cherie's familiar voice echoed in her ears. "Cherie?" she asked. "How, uh, how ya doin'?"

"Oh, I'm alright," Cherie answered, feeling at a loss for words.

Joan smiled to herself. Cherie Currie, who would have thought? As soon as she heard her voice, she was surprised at how happy it made her. She had spent so much time resenting her and staying angry at her but now it all seemed stupid and petty. It felt good to know she was still out there, somewhere, thinking about her.

"Well, if it isn't Cherie Currie, former lead singer of the Runaways! What a surprise! You two must have so much to talk about!"

There was silence on the line as Joan and Cherie both struggled to find the words.

"Perhaps off the air..." The dj added.

"Well, I gotta go Cherie," Joan said quietly.

"Me too, Joanie," Cherie replied a smile playing on her lips. She hung up, turning up the radio and listening to the rest of the show, hearing the distraction in Joan's voice and hoping that she had the same fluttery feeling in her stomach too.