4. LYLA #2
The alley was quiet. The familiar stench of the dumpster hit me as I scanned the graffiti-covered walls. I noticed a fresh mural right next to the door—black and blue skulls wrapped in barbed wire with a gang signature.
A shiver ran down my spine. I’d never seen any gangs firsthand, but every city had its share of thieves and thugs.
And after the morning I’d had, facing off with that rude man in black, my nerves were more than on edge.
The fact that Carmine had been so intimidated by the guy spoke volumes.
And Trina’s warning about mafia men rearranging my face was the kind of thing I couldn’t let myself think about while walking home alone.
So, I clutched my pepper spray tight and walked fast.
I was just a nobody in dark clothing, hugging the shadows.
And I had only two and a half hours until my next shift at Cipher.
The street was mostly empty when I arrived on West 47th, the cold air slicing through my hoodie as I jogged the last block.
Hell’s Kitchen didn’t sleep, but at this hour it felt like everything was running on fumes—like the whole neighborhood was caught in that floaty moment before the alarm goes off and reality slaps you awake.
The glowing twenty-four-hour bodega sign flickered near the corner.
Wedged between a Dominican bakery and a shuttered pawn shop sat my apartment building, its crooked stoop sagging from decades of Manhattan winters.
I dragged my feet up the steps and released a sigh of relief to have made it home safely.
Rust stained the old intercom box, but the main lock still clicked open when I punched in the code.
I slipped inside, grateful for the warm glow of the hallway light.
Three flights of stairs. No elevator.
I took the steps two at a time. My thighs were already aching from my performances and the audition earlier, but my stomach led the charge now. The scent of garlic and cheese hit me as I neared the top.
Home.
The door to 4B had gotten cracked open, just barely, like it always did when the latch caught wrong.
Inside, the apartment was warm, the overhead light in the living room casting a yellow haze over the small space.
Jae sat cross-legged on our navy blue futon in gray joggers, his black spiky hair damp from a shower.
Nat leaned against the kitchenette counter in black yoga pants and a T-shirt that read: “Audition. Callback. Repeat.”
“Oh thank God,” I groaned as I stepped inside, dropping my backpack by the door. “Tell me that smell means you didn’t eat all of it.”
Nat raised an eyebrow and gestured to the pizza box on the coffee table. “Two slices of pepperoni left. But you gotta fight Jae for them.”
“I already had four,” Jae said unapologetically, his mouth full. “You’re safe.”
I kicked off my shoes. Every bone in my body was begging for bed, but that could wait. “I’d sell my soul for carbs.”
“You already sold your soul to that hell-club with the poles and creeps,” Nat muttered, flicking her cigarette ash into an empty soda can before tossing me a napkin.
I grabbed a paper plate off the table and slid a slice of pizza onto it. “That hell-club pays my rent. What can I say?” I shrugged.
Grease dripped down my chin as I lifted the pizza to my lips and devoured it without shame. “God bless crust.”
I reached for the last slice in the box, then flopped down on the futon next to Jae.
“So?” he asked, nudging my knee with his. “How’d the audition go?”
I took another bite, chewed, then sighed. “I didn’t fall. I didn’t vomit. I didn’t cry.” I licked sauce from my fingers. “So…a win.”
Nat blew smoke out the cracked window above the sink. “That’s Broadway math, baby.”
We laughed, tired and worn but still buzzing with that survival energy.
Between swigs of her drink, Nat launched into a story about some drunk who’d grabbed her ass at the bar she worked at. “I was one second away from jabbing him in the eye with a straw.”
“And I had to mop up tears at the studio again,” Jae said with a groan. “This time from a five-year-old who missed her cue during the bunny hop and collapsed in existential despair.”
I snorted. “Honestly?”
Jae was a dancer through and through. He was constantly running between rehearsals, auditions, and side jobs like it was a full-time sport.
We were in the same grind, just chasing it from different angles.
He taught kids’ classes at a boutique studio on the Upper East Side, where the tuition cost more than our rent.
The little rich kids there were all tiny divas-in-training—quick with jazz hands and even quicker with tantrums. Theater-level drama on demand.
Jae always came home with the most ridiculous stories, like the time a six-year-old had demanded a quick-change assistant for her solo recital.
The uptown moms adored him. He was a flamboyant gay man with a megawatt smile, an encyclopedic knowledge of pop culture, and hot takes on everything from Botox trends to Broadway casting rumors.
He gave skincare tips between lessons and knew exactly when to throw in a compliment that would keep a mama funding her little star’s private lessons.
I leaned back and finished the last bite of pizza, savoring the way the cheese stuck to the roof of my mouth. We sat there for a beat, just soaking in the shared exhaustion like it was heat from a radiator.
“This is why we drink,” Nat said finally, raising her glass again.
“This is why I’m going to bed,” I replied, dragging myself to my feet like gravity had doubled.
“You good?” Jae asked, already half asleep.
I nodded. “I’ve got less than a couple of hours before I have to be at Cipher again. Might as well make them count.”
Nat waved me off. “Sleep fast, baby.”
In the bathroom, I scrubbed off layers of makeup and sweat, watching pink shimmer in a spiral down the sink. My eyes were bloodshot, my cheeks hollow, but I still gave myself a crooked smile in the mirror. I’d earned every ounce of this exhaustion.
My room was barely big enough to spin in, but it was mine. String lights blinked above my twin bed, and my unframed pictures from Tennessee, curled slightly, on the walls. I tugged off my hoodie, yanked on an oversized T-shirt, and collapsed face-first into the pillow.
The radiator clanked. I turned my head to breathe and glanced at the clock.
Ugh! 3:00 a.m.
At least I’d gotten a good sleep the night before. Tonight, I would be lucky to catch a nap.
The alarm hit me like a punch. My body screamed. My brain begged for a few more minutes.
I rolled out of bed with a groan, my body protesting every movement as if I’d been hit by a truck.
But there was no time for self-pity.
After stumbling into the bathroom, I splashed cold water on my face, rinsed the sleep from my eyes, and brushed my teeth in record time.
Then I returned to my room and searched through the pile on the floor until I found a pair of black jeans without holes in the knees and yanked them on.
The top half of my outfit took a little more thought.
I dug around in my dresser and found one of my favorites—my soft pink sweater, the one with the scalloped hem, fitted waist, and cute little balloon sleeves; it always made my blue eyes pop—and hesitated before deciding to pull it on.
It was pretty and feminine, but hopefully it wouldn’t make it seem like I was trying too hard.
We were supposed to wear all black at Cipher, but I’d never complied. Black was for funerals—I’d had enough of black. Carmine had reminded me every day for the first week, then stopped trying. Quickly, I yanked on my hoodie. It would help me stay warm and keep a low profile during the walk to work.
Not that it mattered, but I couldn’t help but wonder if Mr. Dangerous would come back today, if for no other reason than to see if the Tennessee girl knew how to behave. After yesterday, he’d probably pick a new place just to avoid me.
I twisted my hair into a half-decent messy bun, tossed a glance in the mirror, and winced.
No makeup. Dark circles. I definitely looked ratchet. But whatever. At least the outfit was cute.
I shoved a water bottle, my phone, a leo, and a pair of tights into my backpack just in case I got a last-minute call, slung it over my shoulder, and bit into a granola bar on my way out the door.
Cipher Coffee was waiting.