I'm sorry this is so short; my inspiration left me after the first paragraph. Thanks for the reviews, and please, for the love of God, feel free to review.
While in the shower, she'd felt his presence. Thank God for locks. But now Alice lay on a dirty brown couch, which after at least two decades of absorbing the cigarette smoke of countless groupies and aspiring musicians, stank like the cushions themselves were stuffed with burnt tobacco leaves. The only thing creating a barrier between Steve, the crazy guy who'd kept holding the lost woman's arm, and the lost woman herself, was a torn, dirtied wool blanket. Alice pulled it over her head to shut out the bright lights pouring into her dark room from the kitchen.
The floor beside the couch creaked loudly, foiling a would-be noiseless step. Alice sat up with the ferocity of an Olympic athlete and yanked on the chain to the dull lamp beside her. After several tries and still no illumination, she concluded it was a dead light bulb.
"Ay poppet, calm down, 's me, Steve!" called a raspy voice, cutting through the dead silence in the pitch-black living room.
"Uh, I was asleep, you startled me," lied Alice in a normal voice. Why was he whispering, anyway?
"Shh! Murdoc's passed out." Steve flipped on the light switch. With the ceiling lights on, Alice could see in plain view the pocket knife glistening between his nicotine-stained fingers. "Come on."
The frail girl just about fainted after seeing the sharp tool in his incompetent hands—thinking he was going to murder her or something—but instead Steve was simply holding on to it. Alice pulled the heavy blanket off and followed the drummer to the door, which led into the kitchen.
The air in the apartment was humid enough to choke on, and Alice repeatedly peeled the t-shirt the two strangers had lent to her from her skin. It clung relentlessly to her body, weighted down by sweat. Steve reached into the cheap mini-fridge and stood back up holding two cokes in his hands. Alice gratefully accepted one.
"I play drums," he suddenly blurted out.
"You mentioned that."
"Wanna hear? Maybe listen to a song from our band? Murdoc seems to be asleep enough," Alice looked into the drummers face and felt a pang of guilt for being such a bitch.
"Okay," she agreed.
The young woman was led through another door and into a make-shift bedroom, with a mattress pushed into the left corner of the wall. On it was Murdoc, sprawled out and perfectly still. A real bed was in the right corner and a pile of blankets in the shape of one was near the farthest wall. Beside the real bed rested a worn-looking drum kit and a collection of broken guitars and basses. Steve settled into the drum set and began pounding away a sloppy beat.
"Wot the bloody 'ell is 'at?" demanded a muffled, tired voice from beneath a pillow. Murdoc hesitantly sat up, revealing blood-shot eyes.
"Drums," replied Steve matter-of-factly.
"No. Shit. Stop it, I've been asleep for fifteen fuckin' minutes!" he fumed. He still wasn't wearing a shirt, and a crucifix dangled from his neck. Alice hadn't noticed it before.
She stood up, ignoring the two men, and snatched up a guitar. It was robin's-egg blue, although it was hard to tell with all the scratches covering it.
"D'you play?" asked the bassist, sounding slightly interested for a change.
Alice continued observing the instrument to avoid eye contact and simply replied, "No." She strummed once, feeling the soft movement through her ribcage, then once again. It was hopelessly out-of-tune, but she didn't know how to tune a guitar. The woman pinched her thumb and pointer fingers together and played the first few notes of an almost undecipherable 'Blister in the Sun".
"You're right; that sounded like shit," Murdoc sighed.