The Proviso (79 page)

Justice’s eyes got wide and she felt her color
drain. Mr. Hicks, Mr. Davidson, the residents all stared at her,
amusement gone, as shocked as she. What, exactly, was Giselle Cox
supposed to
do
with her?

She watched as the irritation on Giselle’s face
melted away and she gave Knox a delighted smile. “How long can I
keep her?”

Knox grunted and flipped her two fresh bundles of
cash. “One week tops.” He looked down at Giselle’s booted feet, her
leathers, then raked his gaze all the way up to her gold hoop
earrings. His lip curled and his jaw clenched. “Don’t—” He gestured
to her clothing. “Just—don’t.
He
might like your fetishwear,
but— No. Just— No.”

Giselle laughed then and he scowled at her before he
whirled back into his office, slamming the door behind him.

“AND NO TATTOOS!” His bellow could have been heard
through that thick wood door all the way downstairs.

She looked back at Justice, still laughing and
wiping tears from her eyes. “C’mon, Justice. Get your stuff and
let’s go.”

She was unable to do anything but what this woman
said whether she wanted to or not, whether she now felt deceived or
not. She grabbed her purse and briefcase and followed her out of
the office, down the hall, and down the stairs. She had trouble
keeping up with Giselle, she was so discombobulated and so . . .
disillusioned. She didn’t think it possible to be more
disillusioned than she already was.

Giselle had been her constant or, rather, what she
imagined Giselle to be had been her constant and that, too, had
been taken away from her with one glimpse at Giselle’s obviously
intimate relationship with Knox.

Justice stopped suddenly on the stairs when she was
confronted by Sheriff Raines, the “pig.” Giselle was so much
farther down the stairs than Justice that it must have appeared to
him that they weren’t together.

“Well, well, well,” he said, rubbing up against
Justice, his—thing—hard and touching her thigh between their
clothes. Her heart in her throat, nauseated, she backed up against
the wall and she thought she might puke. That wasn’t the way it
felt when Knox had done that to her. “Where you goin’ all in a
hurry?”

“I—”

“Knox ain’t gonna be happy about you leavin’.”

There was a clack in Justice’s ear, from below her
and the sheriff. “I suggest,” said that woman in a terrifying voice
Justice had never heard out of her before, “that you get your
pathetic excuse of a penis out of her skirt before I blow a hole in
your chest.”

Sheriff Raines turned and saw her then, on the stair
below him. She was leaning against the wall and pointing that gun
at his chest.

“Do you know who I am?” he grated.

“Actually, yes. I know exactly who you are. Do you
know who
I
am?”

“I know you’re begging to get arrested and nothin’
tellin’ what could happen to you in
my
jail, pretty girl
like you.”

Giselle flipped open her cell with one hand while
keeping an eye on Raines, punching in two numbers with her thumb.
“Yeah. Would you charge me if I shot your sheriff?”

“WHAT?!” The roar, broad, deep, and impatient,
louder than his previous bellow, resonated through the halls and,
simultaneously, from Giselle’s phone. She flipped it closed and
smiled sweetly.

Sheriff Raines had gone ashen; whether it was from
Giselle’s threat to shoot him or Knox’s roar, Justice couldn’t
tell. Footsteps sounded and came closer and closer until Knox was
at the top of the staircase, looking down. Justice could see that
he deduced pretty much what had happened instantly. He crossed his
arms and looked at the sheriff.

“
She
,” he said, nodding toward Giselle, “is
my right hand. If she shoots you, just consider that I shot you. I
don’t know exactly what you did, Raines, but you offended
her
, so you offended me. And
she
,” he continued,
nodding toward Justice, “is my AP. I catch you fucking around with
her again, I’ll kill you myself.” Raines’s eyes widened and he
gulped. “Get lost.”

He did, scrambling down the steps as fast as he
could as the three of them watched until he disappeared from sight.
Knox turned and strode away from them. “Arm her, too,” he threw
over his shoulder as he disappeared back into his office.

Giselle stuck her gun in the back of her waistband
and looked up at Justice, her face softening into a smile. “I don’t
think you’ll have to worry about him anymore.”

* * * * *

70:
SOME OTHER WOMAN’S SHOES

Justice’s nerves, already strung taut, were not
soothed in Giselle’s presence. She didn’t make small talk and she
seemed a thousand miles away, but once they were in her low-slung
BMW and on the way, Justice couldn’t contain her curiosity. “You—
Knox— I thought— You
know
him?”

Are you his lover?

Giselle smiled. “He’s my cousin. We grew up
together.”

Justice blinked, unable to process that completely.
She couldn’t imagine Knox as a baby, a boy, a young man, or
anything other than what he was now. She couldn’t imagine that the
woman she knew as his bitter enemy was his friend, his family.

Justice felt utterly helpless, her image of Giselle
Cox having been betrayed by the fact of her association with Knox,
her willingness to do what Knox said. If nothing else, she had
needed Giselle’s example to get through each day, and now . . .

She is my right hand.

“What are you going to do with me?” Justice
whispered.

Giselle shifted gears, looked over her shoulder to
change lanes, and proceeded to zip around the southbound traffic.
She drove like a demon just released from hell, though she sat
relaxed in the seat, with one hand on the gear shift and the
fingers of her other hand lightly draping the steering wheel.

“I,” she said, “am going to pull a Pygmalion on you.
You’re a beautiful girl, make no mistake. However, if this dress is
anything to go by, your wardrobe came straight out of Sunday
school, circa 1983. There’s nothing wrong with it, really, but it’s
not appropriate for court. You look sixteen.”

Justice gaped at her. A
makeover
? Perhaps
she’d rather be shot dead. That wouldn’t have hurt as badly as
knowing Knox thought she needed a
makeover
. She thought she
might cry, but Giselle reached her hand out and touched the
clenched fist Justice held stiffly on her knee.

“Enjoy yourself, Justice.”

“I’m not interested in a makeover. I just want him
to let me go. I want to get away from him.
Please
help
me.”

“Oh, Justice,” she murmured, and withdrew her hand
to shift again. Her humor had vanished and she seemed . . . sad. A
bit. But Justice didn’t know why that would be. “You don’t get away
from Knox. Nobody does. He’s a tornado and everybody who comes in
contact with him gets sucked in. Don’t get discouraged and don’t
show your fear. Trust me. I promise you, there will come a day when
all this will have been worth it and you’ll be glad you
persevered.”

Justice swallowed at the odd answer. There was so
much more going on under the surface and she didn’t trust this
woman anymore.

“I don’t—” Justice hesitated because she figured her
pleading would be in vain, would more than likely get her in
trouble with Knox, but she couldn’t not ask. “I don’t want to be
there.”

Giselle looked over at her, her sorrow seeming to
deepen. Justice had never met anyone she could read so well, but
then, it might all be an act. She took a deep breath and said,
“Give it one more week, Justice. Just one week from the time I take
you back home. Can you do that?”

Was this a promise of rescue? Could Giselle possibly
be powerful enough to forestall—

“He threatened to kill me if I left. I’m really
scared.”

Giselle sucked in a sharp, deep breath and looked
out the window. “I’m sorry.”

“Would he really do that?” she whispered.

“Well,” she said finally, “he’s not going to kill
you to
day
. Or any time this week. He just sent you on a
week-long all-expenses-paid vacation, my dear, and our first stop
is the spa.”

Justice’s head spun. Knox—the
same
Knox—had
sent her with this woman so she could go to a spa? “I— I don’t
understand,” she whispered.

Giselle chuckled. “Yeah, that’s a common reaction
when it involves Knox. He plays his cards close to the vest and
makes no sense most of the time.”

“That’s why you took that money? To buy me
clothes?”

“Yes.”

Appalled and outraged that she would be wearing the
dirty money it took her so much to resist, Justice said, “Do you
know
where that money comes from?”

“Yes,” she replied immediately, this time with a bit
of a steel edge. “I know
exactly
where that money comes
from.”

That was not the answer Justice expected and she
blinked, but she dare not ask the next logical question. Yes,
Giselle
was
easy to read, but that served the same function
as the rattle at the end of a snake’s tail.

“Justice,” Giselle said with purpose, “my goal is to
help you be as comfortable in real life as you are online.”

Justice started. Swallowed.

“Being comfortable with who you are when you’re
behind a computer and being lauded and paid for your opinions, and
courted by prestigious institutions where you could hide away and
write? Not the same as being comfortable in your own skin. Being
comfortable in your own skin
no matter where you are or what
you’re doing
and knowing what you want are the first and most
crucial steps to power.

“You have opportunities that most women your age
would kill for and yet— You’re an AP in a backwater county on the
outskirts of Cowtown. Why? Is what you wanted in any way similar to
the reality?”

“No,” Justice murmured, ashamed that Giselle Cox
thought she was hiding away from the world.

“Do you really know what you want?”

“I did, once.”

“I’m guessing that didn’t work out for you.”

“No.”

“Perhaps you should think about what you want now.
Take some time to think about what you’ve learned in that office.”
She paused. “You asked me to teach you to be powerful and I told
you I couldn’t do that.”

Justice nodded.

“Knox can and he will if you let him. If you choose
to stay with him, he’ll teach you everything you ever wanted to
know about power.”

“I didn’t choose to stay,” she snapped. “I can’t
choose to leave.”

Giselle made no reply and the silence went on, as
she had apparently said all she wanted to say. As usual, Justice
felt the silence uneasily.

Though the minute she began to get comfortable with
it, Giselle spoke again suddenly, and Justice jumped. “Do you know
anything about guns?”

“Rifles and shotguns, not handguns.”

“Knox wants you to start carrying a weapon. Of
course, if you turn it on him,” she said, her voice suddenly hard
and cold like iced marble, “I’ll make sure that’s the
last
thing you ever do. However,” she went on, back to her usual humor,
“you need to carry a weapon like everyone else in that office. Knox
can’t protect you from Raines every minute of every day. You’re in
the roughest part of Chouteau County now and he wants to keep you
safe.”

Justice’s head spun. “Safe?” she squeaked. “Who’s
going to keep me safe from
him
?”

Giselle slid her a glance and said softly, “You may
enjoy not being safe from him, Justice.”

. . . how about a piece of that fabulous ass up
against the wall over there?

Justice thought her chest had been kicked in. “You
and, and—”

“Oh, heavens no,” she said. “We weren’t meant for
each other.”

Which simply confused Justice even more.

“You’ll be our house guest for the next week, my
husband and me, I mean. I’m going to teach you how to dress and how
to walk and how to present yourself to a jury. Henry Higgins had
six months to turn a Cockney flower girl into Hungarian royalty,
but I don’t have to teach you diction or proper manners. Well, I
don’t know about the manners. We’ll go somewhere and try you out.
This is the part of power I
can
teach you, Justice. Women
don’t just get power from character. We get it from beauty and
presentation.”

“That’s manipulative,” Justice sniffed, looking out
the window.

Giselle chuckled. “You could look at it that way,
yes, but consider this: When you
know
you look fabulous,
you’ll feel powerful and then people will assume that you are. They
will give you respect and then that will in turn feed your power.
It’s a cycle. And besides,” she added, “why would you want to look
a week-long shopping spree in the mouth?”

Well, truly, Justice did want to relax and enjoy
herself, but couldn’t bring herself to that. Knox would be livid if
he knew she was having fun. Giselle promptly disabused her of the
notion.

“Believe me, he doesn’t care how it happens. All he
cares about are results. Your having fun or not having fun doesn’t
even register with him.”

Finally they reached a high-end spa on the Plaza.
For the rest of the morning, Justice was massaged, mudded, oiled,
lotioned, exfoliated, manicured, pedicured, and generally pampered.
Once the strangeness of being nude in public—or pretty close to
it—and being cared for as if she were a baby wore off, she relaxed
and enjoyed it.

“Hair is next.”

“But—I like my hair.”

“Needs a more flattering cut.”

Justice was silent because Giselle’s statement was
final and if Giselle was offended, Knox was offended. The last
thing Justice wanted was to offend Knox.

It took a while to cut Justice’s hair once her
waist-length braid had been unceremoniously cut at the midpoint of
her shoulder blades, then packaged up to be sent to Locks of Love
at Giselle’s behest. That done, she instructed the hairdresser in a
tone that brooked no argument,