Chasing His Kickass Luna Back

#Chapter 79: Mean Spirited

Abby

The lunchtime rush is finally easing up. Much unlike yesterday, it’s been a smooth day so far, and I feel

relieved; but that’s exactly when it happens.

I’m scanning the restaurant floor, making sure everything is running smoothly, when I hear the crash.

It’s a shocking mix of the sound of ceramic shattering, gasps, and the thud of a body hitting the floor,

followed by a loud “Ow!”

My heart lurches into my throat as I rush over to see one of my waitresses, Sarah, sprawled on the

ground amid a mess of broken dishes and spilled food.

“What happened?” I ask, my eyes darting around the room, locking onto a group of snickering

teenagers at a nearby table.

“I saw it,” Karl says, striding past me. “Those little shits tripped her. Deliberately.”

In seconds, he’s at their table, his face dark with anger. “You think that was funny? Get up.”

“It was an accident!” one of the kids says, feigning innocence. But it’s clear that he’s full of shit. They all

are.

I kneel beside Sarah, who’s clutching her wrist, her face pale. “Are you okay?” I ask.

“I think so,” she mumbles, grimacing as she attempts to move. I call over two other employees to clean

the mess and guide Sarah to a chair.

Karl reappears, dragging the shame-faced teenagers behind him. “Apologize,” he commands, his voice

icy. They mumble scattered apologies, looking anywhere but at Sarah or me.

“Sorry isn’t enough,” Karl continues. “You’re washing dishes for the rest of the night. And if I see any of

you around here again causing trouble, you’re going to wish you never set foot in this place.”

“Karl, you can’t—” I begin, but my voice trails off with a look from Karl. A look I know all too well, one

that embodies his spirit of an Alpha.

I watch the teenagers slink off to the kitchen, led by Karl. The room is quiet now; even the low hum of

conversations has died down. But my focus is on Sarah, who is sitting by the bar and wiping tears from

her eyes, her hands shaking.

“I’m sorry, Abby,” she says as I approach. “All that food…”

“It’s not your fault.” I give her shoulder a squeeze. “Little jerks.”

For a little while, I help pick up the slack in the dining area to relieve some of the anxiety from the

accident. But it’s not long before the front door swings open, and a couple strides in.

One glance at them tells me all that I need to know: they have that classic “I’d like to speak to the

manager” air about them, and my heart sinks. They must be the parents.

“Are you the owner of this establishment?” the woman asks, her eyes scanning me up and down as if

assessing whether I’m worthy of her time.

“Yes, I am,” I reply, bracing myself for a potential scolding—or worse, pressing charges.

“Our children informed us they’re here, washing dishes? Something about a prank?” the man adds,

crossing his arms over his chest.

“Um… Yes,” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat. “They tripped one of my waitresses. She’s been

hurt, and there was damage to our property.”

I wait for the outburst, the accusations, perhaps even threats of a lawsuit. But instead, the woman

sighs, exchanging a tired look with her husband.

“I’m sorry you have to deal with this,” she says, shaking her head. “We’ve been trying to instill some

sense of responsibility in them, but teenagers will be teenagers, I suppose.”

“Though that doesn't excuse mean-spirited pranks,” the man chimes in. “They told us it was a joke, but

this goes beyond a joke. Someone got hurt.”

I blink, absorbing their words. This is not the reaction I was expecting, but it’s a relief, like a weight

lifting off my shoulders.

“Karl, one of my… cooks, thought it would be a fitting punishment for them to help clean up,” I say

cautiously, gauging their response.

“A fitting punishment indeed.” The man nods, looking toward the kitchen. “In fact, we’d like to extend

their... employment, if you’d be willing. A week of scrubbing your kitchen and doing whatever tasks you

see fit should drive the message home.”

“Are you sure?” I ask, stunned. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“It’s not an imposition,” the woman assures me. “It’s about time they learn a good lesson. You can’t go

around causing trouble and not expect to deal with the consequences.”

Just then, Karl emerges from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. His eyes meet mine,

questioning. I nod subtly, a smile breaking through my fatigue.

“Karl, these are the parents,” I explain. “They agree with your punishment. Actually, they want to extend

it for an entire week.”

Karl grins, extending a hand to each parent. “I appreciate your understanding. Trust me, there’s a lot to

be learned in a kitchen. I would know.” He glances at me, winking subtly. My face flushes red, and I

avert my gaze to my apron.

“Then it’s settled,” the man says, shaking Karl’s hand firmly.

As the parents walk toward the kitchen, presumably to have a serious chat with their demented

offspring, I lean against the bar, suddenly drained but also immeasurably lighter.

Karl leans next to me, his shoulder barely touching mine. “Not what you expected, huh?”

“Not at all,” I say softly, a slight laugh escaping my lips. “But these past couple of days have been

chock full of surprises.”

He glances at me, his eyes warm and comforting. “Some surprises are good, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” I murmur, realizing the truth in his words. Maybe it’s the parents owning up to their kids’

behavior, or maybe it’s the simple fact that for once, something has gone right amidst all of this chaos.

Whatever it is, I’m grateful. It could have been a lot worse.

The rest of the day is a blur. I feel as though I’m on autopilot, mechanically checking off tasks, my mind

drifting. Even when the dinner rush starts and the restaurant fills with the sound of chatter and

clattering dishes, I feel detached, like I’m observing it all from a distance.

Finally, the clock nears closing time, and I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

The lights are dimmer now, casting a warm glow over the worn wooden tables and chairs. The last few

patrons file out, murmuring their goodbyes, leaving behind the scent of lingering coffee and dessert.

I spot Karl at the far end of the restaurant, flipping chairs onto tables, readying the place for the night.

Our eyes meet, and he starts walking over.

“Long day,” he says, as he reaches me.

“You could say that again,” I reply, a weary smile tugging at my lips.

“Look, Abby,” he begins, his voice tentative. I know where this is going. “About my offer—” Còntens bel0ngs to Nô(v)elDr/a/ma.Org

“I already told you,” I interrupt, “I can’t go. I need to be here.”

Karl puts a hand up. “Just… hear me out?”

I’m a bit surprised, and almost consider reiterating my statement. But for some reason, I let him

continue.

“Listen,” he says, “I know why you really don’t want to go. I know you’re afraid that it’ll make things

complicated, that I’m trying to manipulate you into getting back with me by showing you our old house.

But that’s not it.”

He pauses, licking his lips. “I just worry about you, Abby. You work so hard, and it shows. I just want to

help you get away for a couple of days, go somewhere familiar and comfortable. Somewhere that’s…

not this city.”

Karl’s words throw me for a loop. He looks sincere, and before I can even give myself a chance to

really consider it, I find myself nodding as though I’m still on autopilot. It’s almost as though my wolf is

slipping through for just a moment, pushing me toward him.

“Okay,” I say, surprising even myself. “I’ll go with you.”