Page 160 of Rage

The offer was sitting on my desk downstairs, in the offices of the Grand Kintyre, where Green Fields Enterprises operated.

I hadn’t accepted it. I couldn’t, until I knew a little more about them. We couldn’t sell to some arsehole who might want to dig up things that are better left buried.

“Who's the man?” What kind of twat would cheat on such a radiant creature.

“Feldon Lauder. Used to come from old money, but got pulled into some pharmaceutical scam. Now he’s penniless. No idea if his card will work, and he tips like absolute shite.”

I chuckled, slapping Aidan on the shoulder. “Sorry about that, lad.”

He hissed, shot one mean glance at Feldon, before returning to his work.

Chapter Three

Jazz

“Bossing, they have no openings.” My secretary, Carlo, said after I asked him to get another servation at the Grand Kintyre. Tonight, I wanted to enjoy a mealalone.

But it was not to be. My disappointment stung Carlo more than any tongue lashing I could give. Poor guy.

But he had a way of being lucky, which I valued. An hour later, he returned, beaming, because there’d been a cancellation and they could accommodate me after all.

Without the burden of company, I tried the three Michelin star chicken adobo again, groaning with pleasure at the first, and last bite. I relished every moment the way I couldn’t the day before when Feldon had insisted on talking through the experience.

Yap-yap-yap.He was as noisy as the chickens we used to have in Quezon City.

There was a bittersweet, and almost sour quality, to the memories that swirled in my mind: Tita Lucy, with her cheap, plastic apron that matched her orange tsinelas. Jestiny, who wasa finicky eater, and would eat her meal one grain of rice at a time. Me, wishing Papa wouldnevercome home.

Food was the closest to time travel we had. And I badly wanted to go back.

I’d do so many things differently. I’d protect Jess. I wouldn’t have blood on my hands. I wouldn’t envision my face, slathered in blood, a blade clutched in my palm.

What would it cost me to rewrite the past?

The adobo was for my stepmother. I ordered the New York cheesecake for the decadence of my empty life.

I speared my fork into the cheesecake, tasting the dense, smooth and rich creaminess, before pursing my lips to judge its contents.

It was fine; a combination of German and New York cheesecake, which was heavy. I much preferred Basquan, which had a caramelized outside and a gooey center.Good luck finding something like that in New York, though…

“May I join you?” A tall figure darkened my table. I looked up to see a tall, copper haired man in a casual suit, minus the blazer, but with an old-fashioned vest smiling down at me.

“No.”

“I think I’ll join you anyway.” With a lifted finger, he summoned a waiter and pulled out a seat.

“Yes, sir?” The waiter bowed.

Who the fuck was this guy?Irish, judging by his accent. But what did I know? Irish, British, Scottish… I couldn’t tell the difference. None of them spoke Tagalog.

“Two Irish coffees, and a creme brulee for me,” he said to the waiter. Then he turned to me. “I’m Kieran.” He clasped his hands on top of the table. “And you’re Jasmine Barkada.”

I stiffened. “Jazz. Everyone calls me Jazz.”

The Barkada name was a blessing and curse. As Jareth and I clawed our family to the top, there was a certain… resistancefrom the long-established members of the high echelon. Old money despised the new.

The prominent Irish Green family, and Green Fields Enterprises, hadn’t resisted usyet. But I was sure they would.

“If everyone calls you Jazz, I will call you Jasmine.” There was a glint in his hazel-green eyes that reminded me of a forest. Rich, and lively. “I’m not one to be likeeveryoneelse.”

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