Chasing His Kickass Luna Back

Chapter 0226

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. ConTEent bel0ngs to Nôv(e)lD/rama(.)Org .

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 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, white-knuckled, my other hand clutching the pendant of

my necklace.

“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 flips 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 body 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 own frustration bubbling over. “We didn’t exactly have

time for chit-chat!”

Mr. Thompson glances at Karl, who’s still breathing hard from our sprint. “And what about you?”

“Call me ‘Ken’ today,” Karl blurts out, his voice low.

“‘Ken?’” Mr. Thompson repeats incredulously, staring at Karl’s blue surgical mask. “Is that going to stay

on?”

“Yes,” Karl affirms. “For personal reasons, if that’s okay.”

“Look, I know it’s last minute,” I admit, “but I’m here, despite the circumstances. Isn’t that enough?”

He sighs deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Alright, fine. You’re here. That’s something. But you’d

better make it worth it, Abby. You too, ‘Ken.’”

“Absolutely, Mr. Thompson,” Karl—Ken—says.

“Good. Now the two of you have to hurry to hair and makeup. There’s no time to get familiar with your

station,” Mr. Thompson explains, a reluctant sort of acceptance settling over his features. Read at

“Hair and makeup?” Karl whispers to me. “I didn’t sign up for a makeover.”

“It’s not negotiable,” I whisper back.

Mr. Thompson overhears. “Of course it’s not negotiable.”

Karl nods.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” I assure him. I can practically hear my own heart pounding, but what matters is

that we’re here, we made it, and hopefully, everything will be okay.

“I won’t, Mr. Thompson,” I say. “I promise.”