Elijah cracked his neck, stretched his arms out, kicked a rock. An hour had passed. Maybe two. There was no light save for what little the moon could spare. The vast length of the route fifty highway lay before him, mostly deserted.
He couldn't be this desperate. She couldn't be this late.
Waiting was never something Elijah did for anyone. Not even her. Yet here he was, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nothing but desert, doing exactly just that. Waiting. He leached his fingers into a fist, grinding loose rubble into sand.
His shoulder was throbbing incessantly and the pain that came with it permeated throughout his body in numbing waves. He grit his teeth, his temper spiking from both the pain and his rapidly ebbing patience.
He'd left her a message and it made him cringe just thinking about it. One would say he was out of his damn mind, too consumed by the realization of just how fucked up things had gotten to be considered sensible.
That last bottle of whiskey probably hadn't helped with his decision making.
I need you. Meet me at 50.
He plucked the empty bottle off the ground and flipped it over before smashing it against the asphalt with a satisfying crack. Something hot and wet began dripping from his palms.
A part of him didn't want her to
see him like this show up.
The rest of him didn't want to care.