Author: Skytate17

Title: A Violent Tango

Summary: Bridge is an aspiring musician struggling to make ends meet. He turns to alcohol to solve all his problems and selling illegal substances to make enough money to get by. Sky is the complete opposite. He's an assassin who gets paid for killing unworthy people, and has earned wealth and money from his job. Everything changes when Sky meets Bridge, and Bridge becomes the only thing between Sky and his job.

Note: I rather go with this for now…… but I'm still writing the other one!


Chapter One

His delicate figure hunched over a toilet seat; a soft, blank face and an empty smile. Bridge Carson was all Brown hair, sweaty cheeks and damp forehead under the dim bathroom light, emptying his stomach of all the alcohol he had consumed that night.

He swallowed tap water and looked at himself in the rusty mirror. He looked like shit, with blood-shot eyes and a flat frown. He felt weak and fragile, as if he would collapse any minute in the dirty bathroom. He could hear the bass booming from outside, the numbing noise of people's chatter and the beating of drums.

He stepped out of the comforting dim lights of the bathroom and into the darkness of the party. He could feel the intense heat in the room, a mix of body heat, friction and the heat in the room itself. The only lights were the red sparks at the tip of cigarettes and the glow-sticks Bridge had seen a few people thrashing around. He could taste vomit and bitter alcohol on his tongue, sending a shiver up his spine.

He was drowning in the shadows of people, all his senses heightened by the alcohol that still remained in his body. The music was deafening and loud, like everyone else. He sang along to a few songs he knew, dancing with random party-goers, their hot skin meeting his damp skin, sending a tingling sensation through his body.

In the midst of the dance floor, Bridge felt his knee grow weak and his head throb. Yet, he wanted to stay there, the music was so energizing, so alive. Music. That was what he loved the most. He wanted to pursue a career in music more than anything else, the cheap, easy high he got off music was enlightening for him. The cheap, easy high was costly though. To get that cheap, easy high he held a side-job as a drug dealer. He sold as many illegal substances as he could get his hands on, often making enough money to get the cheap, easy high for days.

Until those days were over, and the same routine would repeat. And it wasn't only for the high, it was for other necessities too. Food, clothing, shelter.

Bridge grooved through the crowd of people, feeling a wave of nausea over-take his body again. His drinking always got out of hand, especially in parties.

He looked around without thinking, snooping around for the alcohol table. He should have stopped drinking, right there and then, but the little voice in his head told him just one more. Just one more and then I'll stop. Well, that's what the little voice always said, but never promised any results.

His head felt like a balloon, about to float away as he gulped straight from a Jack Daniel's bottle. He stood there, with a slack expression and slouching limbs, thinking about nothing and staring at blank air. His feet guided him outside, the darkness of the night engulfing his small frame. He didn't know where he was going, or where his feet were taking him, but he figured it was to where he had parked his car. Where had he parked the damn car?

He walked further and further away from the building, and further into darkness. It got to the point that he couldn't even see his feet or hands; it got so bad he just closed his eyes because it still looked the same. Behind his eyes he could see bursting colors and patterns and darkness, his mouth dry and his eyelids heavy.

Bridge felt the alcohol in his system wanting to come out. He ran into what he assumed was an alleyway and collapsed onto the concrete floor, pain tingling through his body. He rested his throbbing head on one of his tattooed arms, while the other laid on the cold concrete. He stayed like that for a while, listening to the sound of light foot-steps, the wind rustling the leaves on the trees and muffled talk.

The bursting colors and patterns and darkness returned as he closed his eyes. He grew numb as drunken sleep eased his body. He counted sheep before he was out cold; the last thing he remembered was being hoisted in the air by heavy arms.