3. LYLA
Chapter three
T he line outside Playwrights Haven had inched forward, and now I stood just inside the lobby.
My hands always got clammy when it was almost time to be scrutinized in an audition.
Funny how I never got nervous performing at The Sacrifice.
You’d think doing daredevil stunts while wearing barely anything, surrounded by catcalls and the filthiest kinds of remarks, would be nerve-wracking.
But I never cared what those men thought of me.
As long as I kept their cocks hard and their hands off, there wasn’t anything to be nervous about.
Earlier, a guy with an iPad had assigned me a number as he went down the line checking us in and confirming we’d signed up online.
It was just a matter of time now. All I could do was move along with the herd.
You could never tell how long it would take before they called your number.
Once inside, I glanced down at my outfit—jeans with a bloodstained rip at the knee and an oversized hoodie.
I was definitely not audition-ready. I needed to change, but I couldn’t risk finding a bathroom and missing the call for my audition.
I’d have to do it out in the open. At this point, modesty wasn’t even on the list of concerns.
In the performance world, function came first, and I’d learned to stop caring who saw what—especially not when I spent most nights stripping down in a shared dressing room where the only privacy came from turning your back.
I slipped off my backpack and pulled out my audition clothes—the same black leo and tan tights I always wore—then ducked into a corner and changed fast.
Once I was appropriately dressed, I joined the others in the holding room, a space buzzing with energy.
The walls were covered with posters of past productions, a silent testament to dreams realized and dashed.
I found a spot to warm up and began stretching my limbs and humming scales to loosen my vocal cords.
The room was a mosaic of hopefuls—some seasoned, others green—but all of us united by the same burning desire.
A casting assistant stepped into the room, clipboard in hand. “Numbers forty-seven through fifty-six—you’re up. Please follow me to Studio B.”
Heart pounding, I fell in line with the others—ten women in total, all of us shifting nervously and clutching water bottles, bags slung over our shoulders. A few traded quick smiles, but no one really spoke.
The assistant led us through a short corridor and into Studio B, a spacious room with mirrored walls and a polished wooden floor.
At the far end sat a baby grand piano and pianist, and behind a table off to the side was a panel of four—the casting director, musical director, choreographer, and stage manager.
Each had a tented card in front of them, indicating their name and role.
They looked up as we entered, offering polite nods as we filed in and took places along the side wall to wait for our turns.
“Number forty-seven, Lyla Oakley,” the musical director called out.
I stepped forward, spine straight, shoulders back, my pulse drumming against my ribs. This was it.
I focused on using a neutral Midwestern accent—no drawl, no twang, just crisp diction like I’d practiced.
I’d been taking voice lessons since middle school and could flip through accents like a deck of cards.
Normally, I didn’t bother—my Tennessee roots were a part of me, and I liked the way I sounded.
But in moments like this? I didn’t need anyone making assumptions based on how I spoke.
I delivered the line I’d rehearsed in the mirror: “Good afternoon. I’m Lyla Laine Oakley, here to audition for the understudy role of Ruby Vance in City Song .”
I’d researched the hell out of this part.
Ruby was a fierce, sultry ex-Vaudeville performer who stole scenes without even trying.
The character was equal parts heartbreak and attitude, and she had a signature rooftop number that required rigged suspension work mid-performance.
She wasn’t the lead—not even close—but she threaded through the story, frequently showing up in ensemble numbers and background choreography.
A supporting role, sure, but one that mattered.
They weren’t just looking for a decent singer or dancer—they needed someone with aerial experience and the strength to command attention in the air. It felt like the role had been written just for me.
The musical director, a curvy woman whose hair was jet-black—except for a swath of gray at the front—gestured to the accompanist. “What will you be singing?”
“‘On My Way’ from Violet, ” I replied.
The space became silent with anticipation. I crossed the room and handed the sheet music to the woman at the piano. The panel’s table sat just to my right—close enough for them to scrutinize every note, every breath.
Once the accompanist gave a nod of readiness, I took my mark—a few feet from the piano, centered in the open space.
As the notes of the song rang out, I drew in a deep breath.
Focus .
I started to sing, pouring every ounce of emotion into the performance.
I didn’t just sing—I told a story. I channeled every broken part of myself into the moment: the girl who’d packed a suitcase full of grief and ambition, the girl who danced for rent money and clung to hope like a lifeline.
I wasn’t just performing this song—I was living it.
When I finished, the room went quiet.
Just for a beat.
“Thank you, Lyla,” the casting director said with a polite smile, jotting something down on her clipboard.
I nodded and stepped aside, returning to the area where the other women waited.
One by one, they were called up to sing.
Over the next half hour or so, I sat silently and kept my expression neutral, even as nerves gnawed at the inside of my belly.
A few of the women were pitchy. A couple were phenomenal.
One belted out her song as if she’d swallowed Idina Menzel.
But none of them, I noticed, had the mix of grit and grace that I thought the role of Ruby Vance required.
Without needing instruction, we all started prepping for the dance portion.
I warmed up by doing some gentle stretches for my legs and shoulders, rolling out my neck, and circling my wrists and ankles.
Next, I did a few deep pliés and lunges, then jogged in place for a few minutes to bring some blood flow to my muscles.
My knee throbbed from the fall I’d taken earlier, but I pushed through it. Pain was just background noise.
Around me, the others did the same—some with their earbuds in, some quietly humming their audition songs.
One girl in lavender leggings was practicing pirouettes in the corner.
Most had Broadway-caliber legs and the distinctive posture of dancers.
A few of them shot me cursory glances, sizing me up.
We all knew this next round would separate the dancers from the dreamers.
“Shoes off, hair up,” came a voice as piercing as the snap of a snare drum. “I want to see your feet work—arches, articulation, all of it. No hiding in jazz shoes today.”
The choreographer strode over from the table where he and the others had been trading quiet notes on our performances.
He was built like the statue of David , if Michelangelo had worked in black onyx instead of marble.
This man was chiseled, commanding, and made to be stared at.
His fitted joggers clung to well-carved thighs, and his sleeveless muscle tee showcased arms that flexed with every movement.
He moved with coiled precision, like a dancer who knew he could tear the room apart if he wanted to.
Lean and powerful, he radiated the kind of authority that made it clear he expected to be obeyed.
“Name’s Marquez. I’m the choreographer for City Song. If you’re not used to being bruised, exhausted, or airborne—leave now.”
No one moved.
He raised an eyebrow. “All right then. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
First he had us line up along the mirrored wall.
Then he led us through some of the choreography pulled from the show’s opening number—fast, stylized, and full of attitude.
The movement oozed vintage jazz: grounded footwork, sultry isolations, syncopated accents layered with fluid port de bras and crisp directional shifts.
It was a mix of smoky club energy with Broadway precision.
Marquez didn’t ease us in. He snapped his fingers, barked corrections mid-phrase, and paced between us like a drill sergeant with a metronome for a spine.
“More weight in your heels. This isn’t Swan Lake , it’s Bourbon Street,” he snapped at one girl.
“Timing, ladies. This rhythm doesn’t wait for you. ”
He broke the combination down into sections, drilling spacing, intention, and even the angles of wrist flicks. The final phrase built to a sharp triple pirouette, followed by a seamless chassé into a wide, showy grand jeté—no extra prep, no second chances. Hit it or eat it.
My quads were burning, but I was in my element. I pulled up through my center, turned with control, then launched into the jeté, my legs slicing clean through the air, toes pointed, upper body calm. I landed light, knees soft and spine tall.
Marquez’s eyes were on me. He didn’t smile, but his eyebrow twitched—just once—before his attention turned elsewhere.
I took it as a win.
“Stop!” he barked mid-combo, pointing to one girl who kept fumbling a crossover. “You’re dancing like you’re afraid of the floor. Again. From the top.”
Sweat trickled down my spine, but I didn’t break focus. I hit every count with clean precision, letting the downbeat pull me forward. My breath stayed controlled as I rode the rhythm—keeping each extension sharp, each kick deliberate, and each ripple through my arms fluid and exact.
Then Marquez clapped his hands twice. “Now aerials.”
A swell of murmurs moved through the room as a stagehand lowered a thick gym rope from the rigging above. It wasn’t as pretty as a silk or a hoop—this was for raw, stripped-down muscle work. Most of the other girls looked partly annoyed or somewhat terrified.
Marquez glanced at his clipboard. “Lyla Oakley. You first.”
I didn’t hesitate. I stepped forward, took the rope in both hands, and jumped—hooking a knee and driving my hips upward in one fluid motion.
My thighs clamped around the rope as I inverted cleanly, letting the line glide along my side.
I paused in a straddle hold, with my legs extended and controlled, then dropped into a rotation, slowing the descent with my grip.
Near the bottom, I spun into a split variation, finishing in a side-lean pose—back arched, toes pointed, every line deliberate.
Marquez watched, arms crossed, saying nothing until I landed softly on the mat.
“Jesus,” one of the other girls muttered behind me.
I straightened and smiled brightly.
Marquez blinked, finally breaking into a half smirk. “Well, damn. That’s how it’s done.”
I kept my chin up, chest heaving.
He nodded once. “That was clean. Controlled. Sexy without trying too hard. You’ve definitely worked a pole before.”
Heat rose up my neck, but I continued to grin anyway. “In more ways than one.”
A few people chuckled. Even the casting director cracked a smile.
Marquez waved me aside. “All right, next.”
I stepped back to the wall, my heart still pounding.
The other girls took their turns on the rope.
A couple of them nailed it—in fact, one brunette moved with the kind of Cirque-level confidence that told me she’s done this before—but most of them struggled.
One girl barely made it off the floor before sliding down and muttering something under her breath that sounded like bullshit.
I tried to relax and not let myself compare or overthink. I just breathed. Stretched. Rolled out my shoulders as the run-throughs finished. My adrenaline was still riding high, but in the best way.
Marquez finally tucked his pen behind his ear and addressed the group. “That’s all for now.”
The casting director stood. “Thank you, ladies. We’ll be reaching out soon. Please be sure your contact info is accurate on your sheets.”
There was a polite chorus of thank yous, and nervous laughter filled the room as we gathered our things. Someone muttered, “Good luck,” while we filtered out, but no one said much. Everyone was quietly calculating. Wondering. Hoping.
I paused just outside the doors of the studio, letting the weight of it all settle in. I’d done what I came to do. Hit the notes. Landed the steps. Climbed as if I belonged in the rafters.
Ruby Vance wasn’t a starring role—not even close. And I wasn’t even trying out for her, not really. Just the understudy. The girl in the shadows, waiting in the wings, ready to step in if the real Ruby got sick or decided she was too good for matinees.
Still, it was a shot. A standout supporting role. A foot in the door. And I wanted it. Badly.
I exhaled.
Shoulders back. Chin up .
I felt good. Better than I had in months. But there was no time to bask in the afterglow.
A quick glance at my phone sent a jolt through me. I was running late for my shift at The Sacrifice. Now I would have to sprint halfway across Hell’s Kitchen to shake my ass for a crowd of drunks under a different kind of spotlight.
I grabbed my belongings and bolted out of the building.
By the time I stepped out of Playwrights Haven, the sun was long gone.
I hustled northwest through the Theater District and into Hell’s Kitchen, weaving past piles of trash bags, busted neon signs, and guys on corners shouting at ghosts.
Half the streetlights were busted. The other half buzzed like they were about to give out at any moment.
A siren wailed a few blocks over. Someone was shouting in Spanish.
The scent of fried food and something vaguely like piss hung heavy in the air.
I had neither the time nor the cash for a subway or cab.
My shift at The Sacrifice started in twenty minutes, and I still had to sneak in the back before Carlos lost his shit.