Page 63 of Jensen
The enemy of your enemy is your friend, he’d said.
But he didn’t tell me whathedid to Jensen. I clearly only got the most convenient part of the story, and it all somehow ties into the empathy that Jensen appears to feel for my son’s situation.
The thought of Landis has my eyes smarting. The last few days have been hell, trying not to think about him so I don’t break down in front of Jensen.
Now, he’s all I can think about.
I know he’s safe with Kayleigh. And as terrible as Leland is, he loves his son. He wouldn’t hurt him. But he would, and is, using him to crush my spirit beneath his heel. He knows I’ll be back so long as he has Landis. It’s the only fucking reason he signed the divorce papers.
I look at myself in the mirror and force a smile on my face.
Landis is safe. I will get him back.
Jensen calls from down below, saying we need to leave for the airport. I grab my purse, the only thing I took when I left, and go down to join him. Neither of us speak the entire ride there.
He lets me have the window seat. Then, he sits beside me and closes his eyes.
The last time I was on a plane, I was sick to my stomach from fear, not knowing what awaited me in Montana. This time, I’m just as sick, but it’s not as bad because I’m not alone. I fidget, watching the patchwork quilt of the states roll along underneath. This is going to be a long plane ride. He shifts, stretching his legs out. There’s not a lot of room for him.
I pick my thumbnail. He opens one eye.
“Maybe I should have sedated you for this,” he says.
I give him a look. “I’m fine.”
“You scared of heights?”
I shake my head. He opens both eyes and turns his head. “What?”
“I’m scared of Leland,” I whisper.
A muscle in his jaw works. “I get that,” he says finally.
The plane whirrs; the white noise is a little comforting.
“What do you miss from back home?” he says abruptly.
My brows knit. Is he trying to make conversation to calm me down? I glance to the side, studying his profile. The lean, hungry demeanor of him reminds me of home. The Appalachian Mountains are the only place that produces this particular brand of man—tough like nails, everything pushed down so hard, it’ll never come up, eyes that lock the pain in until they’re haunted.
I dig at my thumbnail again. “I miss being free. We might not have had much, but nobody fucking told me what to do when I lived in Harlan.”
Silence. Then, he sighs.
“Yeah, I miss being free,” he says.
I’m starting to like his voice, more than I should. It’s deep, with a prevalent rasp that sounds like it’s about to break. There’s a Montana drawl mixed in, but I hear the Harlan County still. I roll my head to the side, watching him unabashedly, wondering what he was like as a young man.
“Can I ask you something?” I whisper.
“You can,” he says, shutting his eyes. “Might not answer.”
“Who is Brothers Boyd to you?”
“Hell on Earth,” he says grimly.
“What does that mean?”
His brow creases. “Why don’t you take a nap or something?”
