Chasing His Kickass Luna Back
Chapter 226

Abby

Five minutes feels like an eternity. I pace Karl’s kitchen as he quickly gets ready

in the other room, not even taking a moment to take in the fact that this is Karl’s

apartment, and I’m here for the first time ever. The whole place is awash with

his scent in an almost intoxicating way, the leather chairs and brick walls a

perfect representation of his taste: dark, understated, and professional.

Finally, after what feels like hours, Karl finally steps out of his room. Surprisingly,

despite the time crunch, he looks… good.

His hair is combed neatly, and he’s wearing a professional button-down shirt

with black slacks and a pair of loafers. Somehow, even in his haste, he always

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manages to look put-together. I wish I could say the same; I feel like a

trainwreck right now.

However, as he puts on his blue surgical mask, I glance at the clock. My eyes

widen in horror.

“Oh my god, we have only fifteen minutes to make it!” I exclaim, my throat

feeling dry from the hectic morning.

“We’ll make it, Abby. Trust me,” he says, his words muffled behind the mask.

I swallow. “We have to run to the subway. Maybe we can still—”

Karl holds up his car keys with a chuckle that says he has everything under

control. The keys jingle against each other as he wiggles them back and forth.

“Who needs a subway when you have four wheels?” he asks.

“Drive? Through morning city traffic?” My voice leaps an octave. “Karl, we’d be

stuck forever! We’re not making it if we drive. We’re better off on foot.”

He gives me a look that I’ve seen so many times before. It’s his ‘trust me, I got

this’ look. “Just trust me, Abby.”

“Okay, fine,” I say with a sigh. “I trust you.”

With my heart in my throat, we rush downstairs and jump into his car. The

engine roars to life, and Karl zips out of the parking space moments later like a

man on a mission.

“Seatbelt,” he barks.

I click the seatbelt just in time as he swings into traffic, cutting between a taxi

and a delivery van with inches to spare. I grip the edges of the seat, whiteknuckled, my other hand clutching the pendant of my n*ecklace.

“Karl, are you trying to get us killed?”

“Just trying to get us there on time,” he says, his eyes never leaving the road.

I glance at the clock on the dashboard, my stomach lurching. Thirteen minutes

to spare. I can’t believe we’re really attempting this right now. It’s terrifying, and

yet I can’t help but feel a surge of invigorating adrenaline that I haven’t felt since

the day Karl and I ran from those poachers through the forest.

We approach an intersection, the light teetering dangerously between the edge

of yellow and red. Karl pushes the pedal to the floor, and I swear time slows.

The light fl*ps red, and another car enters the intersection, horn blaring, coming

straight at us.

“KARL!”

He swerves, tires screeching, missing the other car by a hair’s breadth. We

come to a screeching halt, the other driver laying into his horn and shouting

obscenities from his window.

“Go, Karl, just go!” I urge, my eyes widening even further as other drivers begin

laying on their horns.

Karl speeds off, and once we’re out of the intersection, I punch his arm with a

force that surprises even me. “Are you insane? Be more careful! Nothing is

worth risking our lives over!”

He looks at me, his eyes meeting mine through the rearview mirror. “And if we

didn’t make it on time because I didn’t take that risk?” he asks.

“What if we got hit?” My voice is a shaky mess, but I can’t help it.

“But we didn’t,” he says. I groan.

But then we turn a corner, and suddenly, there it is—the TV studio. Karl pulls up

to the front, and I glance at the clock again. Five minutes to spare. My heart is

racing and my b*dy is trembling, but we made it.

“You’re insane,” I breathe, my fingers still gripping the seat.

“Maybe insane is what you need,” he says.

A few moments later we’re bursting through the double doors, out of breath from

sprinting up the steps two at a time.

Inside, it’s like stepping into another world—a world that doesn’t appreciate

tardiness. People stare. Whispers fill the room.

The other contestants are already in their uniforms, milling around their stations

to familiarize themselves and begin prep work before the show begins. They all

look up as we burst in the doors, and I can see it in their gazes, especially

Daniel’s: judgment.

“Abby!” The voice booms from across the studio. It’s Mr. Thompson. “What on

earth—”

He quickly strides over to us, his eyes squinting in disbelief. When he’s close

enough, he yanks us aside like we’re kids caught doing something we shouldn’t.

“Where the hell have you been?” He hisses, his eyes drilling into me. “And

where’s your sous chef?”

“John got sick,” I stammer, “so Karl’s stepping in.”

“Sick? Now?” His eyes narrow further, if that’s even possible.

“It was an emergency,” I quickly explain. “He got food poisoning, of all things.”

“Food poisoning?” Mr. Thompson’s eyebrows leap up. “And you’re telling me

this now?”

“I didn’t have much of a choice, did I?” I reply, my

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