Volya didn't stan Liam, but still, the guy was an idol of millions... maybe billions. And he had asked to see him, Volya Wolkov? On purpose?

Judging by the toothpaste-commercial-worthy smile, Liam enjoyed watching Volya struggle with the growing desire to pinch himself. So Volya went ahead and pinched himself.

Liam was still there.

Yes, yes, Volya was taught it was impolite to stare slack-jawed but give him a break! Everyone in Slobodinsk would steal looks at Liam simply because of his black skin color. Add the slick, handsome-devil-and-knows-it look and head-lining the daily news every time he blew his nose... yeah, everyone in Slobodinsk would stare. Forget Slobodinsk. Anyone between Kamchatka and Moscow would stare. Maybe even in St. Petersburg...

Liam didn't seem to mind his gaze one bit. "Hello, Volya."

Great, now Volya could regale the popstar with the exact extent of his English.

"Hi, Liam," he replied. Should he finger-wave to maximize the impact? Giggle like an idiot?

Liam jumped off his chair, extending his hand. His smile illuminated the dreary place better than the spotlights ever could.

Only drug dealers were this happy to see a guy. Volya sniffed the air, but didn't catch anything harder than weed on Liam. The smell was stale, overpowered by something more potent. More seductive. That something kicked Volya into his solar plexus, arresting his breath.

"Can this day get any weirder?" he muttered.

Liam glanced askance at his interpreter. The woman scooted over to stand next to him. She could have been twenty or forty, and as put together as Volya had ever seen. The gray blazer, pencil skirt and faint perfume spoke volumes. In a cultured voice she greeted Volya on Liam's behalf, in case one hello wasn't good enough. Maybe Liam's fame demanded three of everything, including verbal greetings.

Liam spoke again, and the interpreter plunged on, weaving the Russian through English, creating a kind of a bilingual cloud around Volya. He reeled, trying to focus on what was said.

Those genetic swabs they did last year? Volya apparently belonged to a unique population group.

"Oh," Volya contributed to the conversation in English. "Cool."

Liam was also delighted to discover their shared love of music.

"Very cool," Volya said.

All the while, his nose tracked the smell of meat that wafted from the corner of the office. Hunger, never too far, gnawed at his gut, flooding his mouth with saliva. It was a bad, bad combo in the presence of a super-star. If he drooled, it could be misinterpreted.

Liam stopped the interpreter mid-sentence with a polite touch of hand to her shoulder. "I've heard that Russians have a saying, don't feed a nightingale with fables."

That was a damn good saying. The nightingales had to eat.

Liam pointed at the covered tray on a coffee table in the corner, the source of the delicious aroma.

After darting a glance at Anna Leonidovna, Volya studied the plastic hood over the platter. Yes, he was starving, but the goosebumps rose on his arms as his memory plucked the Top 10 of the misguided attempts by the school nurse to prove that he'd grown out of his allergies. Then he remembered the bullies stuffing bread down his throat when he was too small to fight back. Each recollection ended in a violent expulsion and a blackout. Most food was poison to him.

While Volya travelled down the bumpy memory lane, Liam must have moved. His voice came from just behind Volya's ear, spooking him to the point of leaping a foot into the air. Normally, he was impossible to sneak upon, but there was more to freak him out than that.

He understood Liam without the interpretation.

"The food is safe," Liam had whispered neither in English, nor in Russian. The words sounded weird in Liam's mouth, like he wasn't sure what they meant exactly. But when Volya whirled, wide-eyed, Liam winked at him. That is, Volya could have sworn Liam had winked, but it was so brief, he might have imagined it. Maybe he had imagined the unknown language too? Or, even worse, his pinching didn't do the trick and the feverish dream dragged on?

"Wait a minute here—" he started, somehow also slipping into the unknown language, but the interpreter sashayed to the table and lifted the cover. The contents of the tray looked like they smelled, cold cuts, beautifully arranged.

She made an inviting gesture. Or, perhaps, she tried to stop Volya from speaking. Next, she'd click her tongue to call him to heel like a dog.

His head bent low, stubbornly.

"We've made sure there is nothing that can make you sick, Volya," the interpreter said in Russian. "We're aware of your food sensitivities."

He felt ashamed of his instinctive dislike of the woman. Yet, he didn't let go of it. "Really?"

Because it was a long list—or a short one, if you named the only thing he could keep down: meat. Most people refused to believe it, just like they refused to remember his name, because it was so weird. Being weird was an exhausting business.

The interpreter conveyed his doubts to Liam. The popstar draped an arm over his shoulders. "Come, Volya, sit. We'll eat and chat about the internship."

This was definitely said in English. The interpreter interpreted, though Volya caught the gist of it on his own, the years of English lessons making it click in his brain.

Maybe that other thing Liam had said was also in English and he just had a linguistic breakthrough. Wouldn't that be cool...

"Internship? What internship?" Volya attempted in English to test his hypothesis, but what came out was so garbled that the interpreter intervened half-way.

No breakthrough then. When he'd slipped into the other language, it felt smooth as silk.

"I'll explain while you eat," Liam replied. "If you don't mind?"

Volya didn't mind. He understood eating better than anything else, but he was so overwhelmed, that he froze for a second. This looked like Volya resisted being led, resulting in Liam and him swaying in one spot, almost in a hug. An awkward as hell hug.

Anna Leonidovna cleared her throat. Under her withering stare, Volya snapped out of it.

Fine, he'd go and eat. It would be on them if he retched over the popstar's shoes and the principal's floors. At least where the floors were concerned, vomit would be an improvement, but Liam's shoes! They were too pretty by half to be vomited on. Same went for Liam's legs. Time slowed as Volya's gaze parked on Liam's fitted pants. Heart pounded in his ears, louder with every beat. Then a jolt of recognition passed through him, an-honest-to-God electric shiver.

He recognized Liam, not from Toshka's collection of music videos, but on a deeper level. Like in his innermost soul. Sweat built under Volya's collar. He had felt the same damnable sensation once before, many years ago, when he'd met Toshka for the first time.

Noticing his reluctance, Liam released him. The strange reaction faded, leaving behind a tick in Volya's temple. But he could easily ignore that. Breathing shallower, afraid to trigger the shiver again by gulping too much of Liam's scent, Volya made a beeline for the meat.

With the pink rolled-up slice half-way to his mouth, he lost his cool, stuffed the whole thing in... swallowed it whole, too impatient to chew. And might have made a tiny growling sound of visceral pleasure on top of it.

The visitors didn't lie. The meat had no additives, no fillers, was beyond succulent... his eyes closed in savoring it for a second.

When he opened them to grab the next piece, he caught a sight of the principal's widened, embarrassed eyes. Goodness, would she decide what she wanted from him? But let her chew through her judging lips! This might be his once in a lifetime opportunity to pig out.

The interpreter's voice barely reached Volya's consciousness through the haze of gluttony.

"The internship is with my band, Buzzkill," Liam was saying. The Russian words trailed his more faithfully than a shadow. "You'll hang around with us, see how we work on the songs in the recording studio, talk to the managers... Whatever interests you the most."

"Wait a minute." Volya glanced at Liam from the interpreter. After all, it was Liam who did the talking. "You mean you only want me? Not the other guys? Not even Velichko?"

That would be insane. Absolutely frigging insane. One of Toshka's mad schemes to get out of the orphanage was finally working, and Toshka was excluded?

"You want me for my singing?" Nobody, nobody could want him for his singing! Not even in a dream. Something was seriously wrong with this picture.

Liam smiled—an easy smile if one didn't count the strain at the corners of his eyes. "Singing, yes, and the Fund is also interested in doing some genetic work-up on you. That's how the stars aligned, Volya."

"That must have taken half-a-galaxy worth of prophetic supernovas," Volya muttered. "Is something wrong with me? Or is it a good thing? Like, do I have a gene that makes me resistant to cancer?"

He heard about things like that, but why would doctors send a heartthrob to fetch him?

The interpreter furrowed her brow while repeating his questions to Liam, but Liam only chuckled as if to say, you have no idea, boy.

"You can work with the research team while we're getting you up to speed with English and waiting for the rest of Buzzkill gang to return from their holidays," was all he said.

That didn't answer anything. Instead, Liam dangled the carrot in front of his nose. He'd get Volya out of this dreadful place. Volya would have the time of his life in the USA and learn a useful skill... oh, and maybe he'd serve as a lab rat, but just a little. Nothing to worry about.

Even if it didn't sound iffy, there was a bigger problem as far as Volya was concerned: Toshka.

"I'm not going without Velichko," Volya said. Toshka begging everyone to get the orphanage band going flashed vivid in his memory. "It was all Toshka's idea, his very soul poured into it."

"We'll help your bandmates while you're away," Liam cajoled. "But you are the genetic maverick. The Fund wants you."

A hard to read feeling flickered in Liam's eyes. The hair at the nape of Volya's neck bristled.

Even if he'd bought into the American's BS—and he hadn't—he couldn't leave Toshka at the mercy of the Bruiser and Co.

"No," he said.

"Wolkov!" Anna Leonidovna snapped, then turned to the interpreter with an apologetic smile. "The two boys have a close friendship."

"The year would fly by," the interpreter chirped in. "You'll be back home before you know it."

"Home..." Volya mouthed the word as if it were unfamiliar. In a year he'd turn eighteen, meaning that this school and the dorms, no matter how terrible, wouldn't be there for him any longer. Some home.

Anna Leonidovna caught the dullness in his voice. "Your options would be far better with English, Volya, let alone after a work term with a famous band. We love you here—"

She totally ignored his snort. "We love you, but we wouldn't hold you back and let you miss this exceptional opportunity."

A year. One short year. He'd be fed tasty meat. He'd come back with some useful work experience. He'd do great for himself.

All he had to do was steal Toshka's dream and profit from his hard work. They made it super-easy too. He just had to say, where do I sign up?