Chasing His Kickass Luna Back by Jane Above Story

Chatper 243

Abby

All I can do is watch, helpless, as Karl’s form recedes.

He’s being guided forcibly away by the firm hand of a security guard, and he’s

yelling something over the din of the crowd, the announcer, and the sounds of

cooking.

I can’t make out what he’s saying, but whatever it is, it’s frantic. But before I can

make sense of it, a microphone is suddenly shoved in my face, and the camera

blocks my view of Karl’s fading form.

“Abby, what’s happening? Does your sous chef often show such aggressive

behavior?” The announcer’s voice breaks through my train of thought, loud and

Enter title…

grating over the microphone. I feel frozen to my spot, unsure of what to do.

“I… Um… Excuse me,” I manage, pushing past the announcer and hurrying

toward the edge of the stage, toward where Karl and the security guard

disappeared to. But Mr. Thompson is already in my way, grabbing my arm and

yanking me out of the view of the camera.

“Abby, you can’t follow him,” Mr. Thompson hisses, his voice low. “Get back out

there.”

“But I need to—” I begin, but the words are cut off.

“No,” Mr. Thompson cuts in, his tone leaving no room for argument. “What you

need to do is finish your dish. This will be handled, don’t worry.”

“But Karl, he—”

firmly.

You

“But I can’t cook without

“It’s not fair. Daniel still has his

with a regretful shake of his head,

I’m sorry, Abby, but it’s not up to me. You

from me now.

I can’t do this all on my own. I need a sous chef.

I say. “He

This—this is a farce!”

have to pretend anything,” Mr. Thompson replies.

isn’t it? To prove yourself

at the unfinished dish lying on the counter.

the eyes on the stage—all

is right; I can’t just abandon it

Mr.

Karl would want you

without him.”

second,

is right, yet

each word feels hollow, even

the dish, but I won’t let this lie. Karl is many things,

one of them.”

worry,” Mr. Thompson says, squeezing my shoulder. “I’ll look into

Personally.”

around and run back on

this time. The

from their booth.

at work. And the timer

already wasted several

dash past the camera and back to my station. The

like a ticking time bomb, a countdown to an explosion that may or

utterly helpless

way past Daniel’s station, I catch his eyes. He and his sous

cooking with one hand,

with that knowing glint in

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