Lone Werewolf Duology (bxb)

2. Food for Thought

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?

What in the world...?!

Judging by the toothpaste-commercial-worthy smile, Liam enjoyed watching Volya struggle with his growing desire to pinch himself. 

So, Volya went ahead and pinched himself.

Didn't help: Liam was still there after the pinch. Volya blinked and stared. Yes, yes, he was taught how impolite it was to stare slack-jawed at people. Men. But give him a break! 

Everyone in Slobodinsk would steal looks at Liam simply because of his black skin color. 

Add to that the super-star's 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. 

You know what? Forget Slobodinsk! 

Anyone, anywhere between Kamchatka and Moscow would stare. Maybe even in St. Petersburg used to the foreign guests more than any other city in Russia!

Liam didn't seem to mind it one bit. "Hello, Volya," he said.

Great, now Volya had to regale the popstar with a full extent of his English. "Hi, Liam," he replied. Should he finger-wave to maximize the impact? Giggle like an idiot? What?

Liam solved Volya's predicament by jumping out off his chair. He extended his hand and the dreary place lit up from his smile. Seriously, the principal's office had never looked this good. Liam's smile worked better than any floodlight.

Only drug dealers were this happy to see a guy. 

Sobering from the flush of excitement, 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 mysterious 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 they had already exchanged wasn't good enough. 

Volya shrugged. 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. From all things, Liam was talking about the genetic swabs the orphanage made them do last year. 

"You belong to a unique population group," the interpreter chirped.

"Oh." Volya said, then decided to contribute to the conversation in English: "Cool."

"I'm also delighted to discover our shared love of music," the interpreter said. 

It took Volya a second to realize that it was Liam, not his interpreter, who was delighted. "Very cool," he 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.