Chasing His Kickass Luna Back Chapter 109

Abby

A sudden jolt of fear seizes me as I lock eyes with the man at the far end of the alley.

“You there!” he repeats, taking another step closer. “What are you—”

“Um… Karl? John?” I call out, mainly out of instinct. If there’s one thing that living in the city over the past few years has taught me, it’s not to trust strange men, especially not in the middle of the night.

“Wait, I—”

The back door slams open before the man can finish, spilling yellow light from the kitchen out into the alley. John and Karl burst outside, alarmed by the commotion.

“What’s going on? Are you okay?” John asks, his eyes widening as he spots the stranger.

Karl, not waiting for an answer, storms toward the man, his face twisted in anger. “Hey, what do you think you’re doing here, bothering a woman in the middle of the night?” he growls, grabbing the man by his tattered jacket and pulling him away from me.

The man doesn’t resist, but he does point a trembling finger at the bowl in my hands. “I just wanted to know if you were gonna throw all that away, that’s all!”

I glance down at the bowl in my hands, feeling my stomach sink just a little bit. He’s just hungry, and saw someone throwing away what looks like perfectly good food. My heart’s still pounding from the sudden scare, but something inside me shifts.

I lift my gaze and look at Karl, who is still clutching the man’s tattered jacket and driving him away.

“Karl, wait!”

Karl hesitates, looking at me questioningly. There’s an incredulous look in his eyes, and for good reason. But I choose to ignore it and instead turn to the homeless man, holding the bowl out slightly.

“Was this what you wanted?” I ask.

The man nods. “Yes, please,” he says, sounding more than a little desperate. “That’s all. I’m really sorry; I didn't mean to frighten you, miss.”

With a sigh, I exchange glances with John and Karl. John’s face is unreadable, but Karl’s is a mask of anger and worry.

“But it’s a failed dish,” I say, glancing down at the bowl again. “Trust me, it tasted really bad. You probably won’t want to eat it.”

“I don’t care, miss,” he says, his voice hoarse from thirst, and it’s then that I notice that he’s got a heavy French accent, which is rare around here. “I have eaten far worse. I’m just hungry.”

Our eyes lock, and I see something there—an unspoken understanding, a shared human moment. It stirs something in me, a mix of empathy and shame. I look at Karl and John, who both seem uncertain, their faces unreadable. Karl’s face has shifted to the slightly more understanding side, but I can sense that he’s still a little angry.

“You can have it,” I finally say, offering him the bowl. “Please, take it.”

The man’s eyes widen, and for a brief second, I see a glimmer of something—relief, maybe even gratitude. He takes the bowl from me cautiously, as though he’s afraid that I’ll suddenly snatch it away.

“Thank you, really,” he murmurs. “I am sorry for scaring you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say, casting him a gentle smile. “I’m sorry for freaking out.

Without another word, the man nods to me and retreats to sit on a battered cardboard box in the alley. He digs in, mumbling thanks between bites.

We turn to go back inside, but as I’m crossing the threshold, I feel the first few drops of rain hit my skin. It starts as a light drizzle, barely audible against the rooftop, but enough to make me stop and turn back. The man’s still there, huddled in the dark, eating beneath the increasingly heavy rain.

“Come on, Abby, let’s go,” Karl says, a note of irritation in his voice. “He’s fine; you’ve done enough for tonight.”

But I can’t just let it be. I watch as the rain soaks into the man’s already threadbare clothes, and my heart feels like it’s being squeezed in a vise.

“No,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper. “He should come inside to eat. It’s just not right, having him out there in the rain.”

Karl’s eyes narrow. “Are you serious, Abby? We don’t even know this guy.”

“I know. And I promise, if anything happens, you can kick him out. But I have to do this, Karl. I just have to.”

Karl searches my eyes, and I can see him wrestling with his judgment. He sighs, defeated by whatever it is he sees in my expression.

“Alright, but I’m keeping an eye on him.”

“Me, too,” John chimes in, although I can sense that he’s somewhat more open to the idea than Karl.

My heart feels lighter, even as the weight of what I’m doing fully sets in. I step back out into the drizzling rain, motioning for the man to come inside.

“Come on,” I call out, offering the man another gentle smile. “You can come inside, out of the rain.”

The man looks up, his eyes widening. “Sorry?” he calls out, looking confused.

“Come inside,” I repeat. “Come out of the rain.”

He stands and slowly walks over to me. I open the door a little wider. He hesitates on the threshold, like he’s doing something utterly forbidden. “I can come in? Are you sure about this?” he asks in his thick French accent, his eyes meeting mine.

“Yeah, come on in,” I assure him, stepping aside to make room. He walks in cautiously, eyes darting around the kitchen like a bird sizing up unfamiliar terrain.

I guide him to a stool in the corner. “Sit here. You want something else to eat? I can whip up something fresh if you’re really hungry. And something that doesn’t taste bad.”

The corners of his mouth twitch upward, forming the shadow of a smile. “Fresh food?” he asks. “I haven’t had anything fresh in a while now. Mostly just scraps and moldy bread for me. But you really don’t have to go to the trouble, miss.”

My heart sinks a little. I glance at John and Karl, who are observing the interaction, a mixture of wariness and curiosity on their faces. “Well, let’s change that,” I finally say. “It’s no trouble.”

Swiftly, I grab ingredients from the fridge and the pantry. My hands move on autopilot, chopping and stirring the pasta and sauce. Within minutes, a hot dish is ready. I even pack some extra in a tupperware, which I put it in a bag and set down beside him. “You can keep this for a couple of days. Just don’t let it go for too long.”

“Thank you, miss,” he says softly, his eyes a little brighter. He eats quietly, his movements deliberate, as if savoring each bite.

I turn to John and Karl, who have been watching the whole scene unfold. “So, do we want to give that recipe another shot before we pack it in for tonight?”

John shrugs. “Sure, why not? Maybe the third time’s the charm.”

Karl, still skeptical but also maybe a little mystified, nods. “Sounds good. Let’s do it.”

With our spirits reinstated, we dive back into the mystery of the truffle dish. All the while, the homeless man sits quietly, and every time I glance back at him, he seems to be enjoying his food in peaceful silence. I exchange quick glances with Karl every so often, as if to say: “See? He’s not hurting anybody.”

However, by the time we’ve finished the dish, it’s a failure once again.

“Ugh,” I whine, throwing my fork down. “Bland. How did we manage that?”

“Hey, at least it’s edible,” John says, swallowing his bite.

Suddenly, the homeless man’s voice breaks through the silence. “You’re working with black truffles, aren’t you?”

I pause, shocked. My eyes meet his and a surge of caution works its way through me. We did steal these truffles from a poacher gang, after all. He wasn’t sent by them, was he?

“Um, yes, we are,” I answer carefully, my gaze darting between the man, Karl, and John.

He smiles. There’s a knowing glint in his eyes, something that tells me that this man isn’t exactly what he seems. “I know what your missing ingredient is.”