Chasing His Kickass Luna Back by Jane Above Story

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

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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.

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“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

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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,

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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.

As I make my way past Daniel’s station, I catch his eyes. He and his sous chef

are back at work, his sous chef cooking with one hand, although I know he’s not

really injured. Daniel shoots me that look with that knowing glint in his eyes, a

subtle smirk crossing his lips.

“Rat,” I think to myself, feeling my hackles raise just at the sight of him. But I

can’t stop now. Whatever this is, I’ll have to deal with it later. Right now, my

focus is my half-finished dish.

My hands tremble with a combination of anger and adrenaline as I come to a

screeching halt at my workstation. A quick glance at the half-finished dish

reminds me: truffles. Cursing under my breath, I run to the pantry, grab the

coveted container off the shelf, and run back.

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“Just like Anton taught me,” I think as I sprinkle the finely chopped truffles into

the butter, letting them simmer together so that the flavors melt into one another

and create a perfect harmony of umami and woodsy tang.

I then return my attention to the pasta, stirring it. It’s handmade, so it cooks

quickly, and before I know it, it’s out of the pot and ready for the truffle butter.

I steal a glance at the clock—mere minutes remaining. “Okay, okay, pan,” I

murmur, carrying the strainer over to the frying pan where the truffle butter is

waiting.”

“Looking a bit rough there, Abby,” Daniel says, his eyes meeting mine with a

smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

I shoot him a glare that could kill. “Worry about your own dish, Daniel.”

“Oh, I am,” he chuckles. “It’s just impossible not to notice when someone is

flailing.”

I want to snap back, to throw his smugness back in his face, but there’s no time.

My hands are moving on their own now, muscle memory guiding me more than

thought right now, each ingredient added in a rush of desperation.

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