Chasing His Kickass Luna Back novel Chapter 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 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—”

“Will be taken care of,” he interrupts firmly. “The judges have made it clear: the timer will not stop. You must continue or forfeit.”

My mind races. “But I can’t cook without my sous chef,” I argue, my voice wavering now. “It’s not fair. Daniel still has his sous chef.”

“Fair or not,” Mr. Thompson retorts with a regretful shake of his head, “those are the rules. I’m sorry, Abby, but it’s not up to me. You do want to win, don’t you?”

Winning. The concept seems so far from me now. It doesn’t feel right to keep going without Karl. And I can’t do this all on my own. I need a sous chef. “I can’t just pretend that this is all okay,” I say. “He would never hurt anyone like that. This—this is a farce!”

“You don’t have to pretend anything,” Mr. Thompson replies. “Just cook. That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it? To prove yourself in the kitchen?”

I glance back at the station, at the unfinished dish lying on the counter. The cameras, the lights, the eyes on the stage—all of it is the real reason why I’m here. Mr. Thompson is right; I can’t just abandon it now.

“Abby, you have to go back,” Mr. Thompson murmurs, his voice lower now, his eyes laced with concern. “You know Karl would want you to finish this, even without him.”

I close my eyes for a fleeting second, letting his words anchor me to this moment. Mr. Thompson is right, yet again.

“You’re right,” I say, though each word feels hollow, even to me. “But this isn’t over. I’ll finish the dish, but I won’t let this lie. Karl is many things, but violent isn’t one of them.”

“Don’t worry,” Mr. Thompson says, squeezing my shoulder. “I’ll look into this. Personally.”

I whirl around and run back on stage, where the camera and the announcer have been waiting for me all this time. The audience is murmuring in confusion, and the judges are staring at me from their booth. Daniel and his sous chef, however, are right back at work. And the timer hasn’t paused for even a second. I’ve already wasted several minutes over this.

“Dammit,” I murmur as I dash past the camera and back to my station. The timer feels like a ticking time bomb, a countdown to an explosion that may or may not come. And I feel utterly helpless in this mess.