Chasing His Kickass Luna Back by Jane Above Story

Chatper 251

Abby

My apartment is dark when I finally get home tonight. It still smells faintly of

fresh paint from the new coat that my landlord put on, but I can still sense the

lingering scent of smoke, too.

I decide to avoid the harsh glow of the kitchen lights as I plop the wine glass

that’s been tucked under my arm onto the counter island, followed by the bag of

takeout food that I picked up on my way home.

It’s still warm, the grease beginning to seep through the bag as the faint smell of

garlic and onions permeates through the air. On any other night, I might be

delighted to dig in; but honestly, I have no appetite tonight. Even the thought of

Enter title…

food makes me sick after everything, after all of the failed dishes. But I know I

need to eat, and if I don’t, I know I’ll regret it later.

For a moment, I dig through my cupboard for a plate and some silverware, but

eventually decide to opt out of the plate.

The cork gives a subtle pop as I open the wine. No glass, I decide. Not tonight. I

take a swig straight from the bottle, the sharp taste of alcohol momentarily

cutting through the numbness. It’s a start.

I crash onto the couch, the plush cushions a welcome comfort after being on my

feet all day. The TV flickers to life with a soft buzz a moment later, and I navigate

in a

much time passes. Hours,

cheap movies, cheap wine, and even cheaper

today—the truffle dish, the disdainful look in Logan’s eyes, the

with Karl—keep playing

movies on the screen.

to myself

pathetic now, especially when I was so sure

just that I lost, either; it’s that I was humiliated

were had,

were ignored.

laughingstock. Hell, I might even

out of

go there tonight. I can’t even bear to glance at my

be barraged with a chorus of sympathies that will

want to hide my

bottle of wine finally empties. I don’t remember finishing

proof. Groaning, I push

and shuffle into the kitchen, where another bottle waits for me in

make my way

standing in the doorway with the second wine

that I hear it: my wolf’s voice,

back of

to wallow in misery, or are you going to keep

forward?”

is like a slap to the face, or a rush

It takes me completely by surprise in my current

bottle slips from my grasp, wine splashing onto the

and nearly fall onto the

kitchen for a

I say out loud as I grab the towel off of

and dabbing it into the carpet before

“Now I’ve spilt wine

Abby?” My

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