MISCHA’S FATHER WAS supposed to have a job lined up, some sort of civilian position with a government contractor, when they came to the US. By the time their family arrived, most of the people filling those positions had realized Russia didn’t have a whole lot of secrets to glean that the US didn’t already know.

Both his parents worked, and he spent his afternoons in speech therapy, because Mischa’s teacher decided his English needed to be cleaner. There was so much more variety in the US, and most of it was out of his parents’ reach, given how little they made.

The kids at school made fun of Mischa for his accent and threadbare clothing, until he learned how to fight back. Brawling, and being good at it, meant the bullies gave him a wide berth. By the time he finished junior high, he figured out wearing the right thrift store clothes, and being unafraid to tell people to fuck off meant he was punk instead of poor. Dookie was his prayer, and Greenday was his prophet.

He started skateboarding because he could scrounge the parts to build his own, and it added to the I’m-too-punk-to-give-a-shit-what-you-think vibe.

Then he hit high school, and the entire pecking order crumbled. First week, some dickhead rich kid made it a point to seek Mischa out wherever he went–bumping into him in the hallways, and knocking him over if Mischa wasn’t paying attention.

It got worse when the kid brought his buddies to the stairs behind the school, where Mischa liked to jump stairs and rails after hours.

“Hey, jackass. Parents couldn’t afford a real board for you? They make you ride that piece of shit?”

Mischa knew who the asshole was. Everyone in school did. Tristan Hough had been training to be in the Olympics since he could stand on a snowboard, and there was little question he’d make the US team in 1998.

Mischa ignored him. Every time. Brawling was one thing. Kicking the shit out of the school alpha, when Tristan’s folks had enough money to buy Mischa’s, seemed like a less-than-smart idea.

“You look like a goon. You don’t even know how to ride,” Tristan taunted.

Mischa stopped, kicked the board in the air, and caught it. He handed it over. “Show me.” He’d learned how to hide the accent. He was grateful that was one less thing to make fun of him for.

“What?” Tristan stared back, eyes wide.

“I don’t know how to ride? Show me how to do it right.”

“I’m not using your piece of shit gear.” One of Tristan’s friends handed him a skateboard. The wheels shone almost as brightly as the chrome.

They jumped stairs, slid rails, ground on the curb, and Mischa was better. When he came to a stop, Tristan pushed him and grabbed his board.

Tristan struggled to keep his balance, and landed on his ass. Because Mischa kept the bearings loose. It made it easier for him to maneuver.

Mischa went home with a black eye, but he’d never felt so smug. Especially when Tristan approached him a week later, and asked for tips. Said he had a decision to make—be the best, and win the gold, or keep kicking the crap out of Mischa. The Olympic medal meant more.

They taught each other tricks of their particular trades, and while Tristan was never quite as good on the skateboard, and Mischa never completely mastered the snowboard, the connection solidified their friendship, and a little less than a decade later, made them both top names in their sports.

Mischa was grateful for Tristan’s friendship, but on days like this one, he wished the bastard wasn’t so good at crawling into his skull.

Mischa twisted the keyring around his left forefinger as he knocked on Ash’s apartment door.

Kelly opened the door a crack.

He held up the key to the Honda. “Car’s back.”

“Ash said she was sorry she was bitchy to you earlier.” Kelly stepped outside, closing the door behind her.

Instinct wanted him to say then she should tell me herself. What kind of childish move was this, sending her little sister to apologize? He was too tired to push the issue. “I probably deserved it. May I talk to her?”

“She’s sleeping. Pills knocked her out.”

That made sense. “Do you have someone you can call if she needs something tonight?”

“Hugh is upstairs. He’s got us covered.” She nodded toward the house.

That was Mischa’s cue to leave. His feet seemed stuck to the concreted. He’d really hoped to see Ash. To apologize, of course. “Do you need anything else?”

Kelly grinned. “I do. Stay here.” She disappeared into the apartment, and returned a moment later, gripping her skateboard in one hand, and her phone in the other. She thrust the board at him. “Will you sign this? And take a picture with me, so my friends believe me when I say it was you?”

“Sure.” Simplest request he’d heard in days, and he loved it. He pulled a Sharpie from his inside jacket pocket.

“You carry that on you?” Awe filled Kelly’s voice.

It was such an old habit, he didn’t even think about it. It came more naturally than grabbing his watch, even though he didn’t get a lot of requests for autographs anymore. “Gotta keep my fans happy.” He took the board from her, balanced the top on his knee, and brushed the dirt aside on the bottom. He scrawled his signature in large black letters, then handed the skateboard back.

A couple of photos later, Kelly gripped the doorknob. “I’ll let you go. Thank you.”

“No problem. Have Ash call me when she’s feeling better?” Because of the job. That was what Tristan said that stuck in Mischa’s head. It had to be. He should have taken her resume more seriously.

“Are you two back on again?”

“No. And we weren’t on to begin with.”

Kelly pouted. She cradled board to her, and gave him one last glance. “I’ll tell her.”

He made sure she was inside, and the door locked, before heading back to his SUV. He got in the driver’s seat, and something slid from the visor to land in his lap. Ash’s financial aid paperwork.

He started to head back to the apartment, then paused. If he waited until tomorrow, Ash would be awake, and he could talk to her directly. Because he wanted to discuss the job opening with her. That was the only reason.

Right. He wasn’t fooling himself. He wanted to see her, for her.

*

ASH WAS WATCHING MINUTES tick away on her laptop when Kelly returned to the apartment. “You took your time.” Ash couldn’t keep the frustration from her voice. She wanted to slide into a lecture about spending time alone at night with older men.

However, for as much as Mischa got under her skin, she wasn’t worried about anything like that. “Get the keys from him and tell him thanks. How did that take twenty minutes?”

“I’m never riding this again. I want to frame it.” Kelly grinned as she held out her skateboard, bottom toward Ash.

Ambivalence twisted in Ash’s chest at the adoration on Kelly’s face. There was no way they could afford to replace that board, especially now. “Never say never.” Ash tried to keep the reply vague.

“Whatever. He wants you to call him. Says it’s not about hooking up. I say it totally is.”

“It’s not.”

Kelly rolled her eyes. “Did you know he’s bilingual? Moved here from Russia with his parents when he was ten. That’s where the accent comes from. And he didn’t even start training until he was in his teens. He’s just naturally that graceful.”

“Did you memorize his Wikipedia page?” Ash asked.

“I’ve read it a few times. I’m just saying, if he wants to hook up, you could do worse.”

Sometimes Ash swore her sister was fourteen going on forty. Still, the idea of calling Mischa back was tempting.

She forced herself not to bolt upstairs and knock on Hugh’s door. She’d already humiliated herself three times with Mischa. No reason to ruin that nice, odd number by making it four. Besides, she needed to look into how to file for short term disability, then figure out how many more bills could wait another month to be paid.

Ash woke up the next morning to a sharp pain stabbing through her neck and down her arm, to tingle in her fingers. She didn’t know if it was because she fell asleep sitting up, or that the pain pills had worn off.

Her laptop was tucked onto the shelf next to her, with a note on top from Kelly.

Went to Emma’s. Back this afternoon.

Ash went to drag her fingers through her hair, and snagged the cast on her locks. She dropped the useless arm in her lap, and rubbed her face with her left hand instead.

She wrapped her cast in plastic as best she could, and fumbled her way through a shower, then figured out the logistics of combing her hair one-handed, and yanked on some clothes. Fortunately, she preferred her shirts loose, so it only took a few minutes of struggling before she figured out how to dress herself.

She settled in with her computer. Maybe she could find some sort of job that let her work at home, and wasn’t a scam or MLM.

Someone knocked. Mischa? She hated herself for the thought the moment it passed through her mind, but that didn’t stop hope from bubbling inside.

She answered, and found a man in jeans and a button-down plaid shirt standing on her stoop. “Georgia Taylor?”

“That’s me.”

He handed her an envelope. “You’re being served.”

“What. For what?” She tore the letter open as she spoke. YOU ARE HEREBY NOTIFIED that your tenancy at the premises is terminated... Nausea surged inside, and she swallowed it. “What is this?”

“I’m just the messenger.” He was formal, but kind. “I can’t answer your questions, I apologize. If you need more information after you read the notice, you can contact the courthouse for help, or look online.”

Because seeking legal advice from a website was a smart way to work her way through an eviction notice. Sure. She gave him a tight-lipped smile. “I see. Thank you.”

She closed the door and leaned back against it, tears pricking the inside of her eyelids. “What the fuck do you want from me?” She wasn’t sure who she was screaming at. God. The universe. Anyone who might hear her.

She was hurt, but not the least-bit surprised, when she didn’t get an answer.

Her head ached and her wrist throbbed and her stomach was an empty pit. She wasn’t sure if the last one was stress or hunger. There was no way she could hold down food. She was tempted to dig out the bottle of vodka hidden in the back of the cupboard, but she wanted to take more pills.

Cutting might be a part of her past, but she’d never been suicidal. Besides, the hospital hadn’t given her enough Percocet to overdose on, so the best she could hope for was it would make her sick, and the worst was another trip to the emergency room.

She wandered into the small square of tile that passed for a kitchen, set the eviction notice on the counter, and opened the cupboard with cups in it. When she reached for one, someone knocked.

Great. Maybe Mister You’re being served was back. Or a new guy, with a new level of bad news. She looked at the door, as she reached for a glass. “Hang on. Be right there.”

She grasped a cup, and tugged. Her glass caught the edge of more dishes, and an entire stack of plates and bowls crashed to the ground around her.

“Ash? Are you all right?” The question carried through the room.

Mischa. Of course. “I wasn’t challenging you,” she shouted to whatever deity misinterpreted her frustration a few short minutes ago.