10. LYLA #2
“Welcome to Manhattan.” Then her voice lowered a notch, like she was letting me in on something. “You didn’t hear it from me, but sometimes this kind of thing happens when one of Carmine’s bosses needs the shop for a… private meeting.”
The hair on my arms stood straight up.
“Anyway, see you Tuesday.” She hung up before I could respond.
I stared at the screen.
Nat leaned in. “Jesus. Sounds sketchy as hell.”
“Yeah,” I muttered. “Especially with Carlos telling me not to come in tomorrow either. Two jobs cleared off my schedule back to back?”
Jae nodded slowly. “It’s a little too neat.”
Nat plopped back onto the futon. “Whatever. You need a break. Consider it a blessing. You almost got blown to pieces, Ly. Chill for a day.”
“I don’t know…” I said quietly.
Then I got a strange sensation, even with the blinds closed—that someone was lurking in the shadows.
I rubbed the chill from my arms and tried to shake it off. “Next time I see that creepy-ass guy from the coffee shop, I’m gonna tell him to back the fuck off or I’m calling the cops.”
Nat sat up. “Damn right. I don’t care if he’s mafia or FBI or the king of France. Stalking is stalking.”
I nodded. “I’m not gonna live in fear. I’m not some weak little girl. I can hold my own.”
Jae smiled softly. “We know.” He pulled me into a side hug. “Still…it’s late. And I think we all need some sleep before we keel over.”
He gave me that pitying glance reserved for when he thought I needed a hug or a shoulder to cry on. “Wanna crash in my bed tonight?”
I shook my head. “I’m okay. Thanks though.”
We all peeled ourselves up from the futon and shuffled toward our respective bedrooms. My limbs were heavy. Everything ached. I slipped into my room and shut the door behind me.
The bed looked like heaven. I climbed in, pulled the covers up to my nose, and closed my eyes, but my brain had other plans.
I tried not to think about the club…about the incident.
So I focused instead on him —the man in black. My stalker. Mr. Rage-and-Russian-Accent.
Every time he looked at me, it seemed like he hated me. He acted as though I were a liability he hadn’t decided whether to silence or sell.
But if he hated me that much…why was he following me?
He was terrifying. Tall, dark, ripped. He had the face of a fallen angel who had torched his halo for fun. Dangerous. Controlled. Deadly.
The kind of man who didn’t even need to speak to own a room.
God, why were the hottest men always the worst humans?
I’d been polite. Just tried to serve him a damn coffee. And he’d glowered at me like I’d handed him a live grenade.
My tired brain shifted, like it always did when men were involved, to Sage Lockwood. He was my personal measuring stick that no other guy had ever lived up to.
I’d met him right after turning sixteen—when I’d finally been old enough to drive myself to my job at the Dixie Stampede. That summer, I’d lived for helping with the horses and learning the routines, hanging off every word the older girls said.
And then came Sage.
He was a two-time Pbr champion. Twenty-four years old.
Pure muscle and swagger. Onyx eyes that didn’t miss a thing.
He’d been hired to show off during the main event by riding one-ton monsters and walking away like it was nothing.
They’d built a special pen for him in the arena where he’d given live bull-handling demos, even climbing onto a chute-ready bull and showing the audience exactly how a real ride started.
He would narrate as he worked—explaining what made a ride score high, how a rider kept his balance while the bull tried to launch him into the dirt, why every second counted.
And when the bull charged out of the chute, the crowd would lose their minds, even if the bull only spun and bucked a few times.
Every girl had drooled. I’d barely breathed.
We’d met by accident. I’d slipped during a solo practice and landed flat on my back, getting the wind knocked clean out of me.
He’d been there in a flash. Concerned. Kind. Handsome enough to short-circuit my teenage brain.
He had picked me up, walked me to the stables, and set me on a bale of hay. I will never forget how he brushed red clay off my cheek like I was precious, letting his hand linger.
Tilting my chin up, he’d brushed a soft kiss over my lips and told me I was beautiful.
My heart had never recovered.
He’d never touched me like that again. But I worshipped him from a distance. Hung on his stories. Stared when I thought he wouldn’t notice.
Then, one morning, he’d awakened something wild within me. He had just gotten bucked off hard and disappeared into the men’s locker room, limping.
I followed.
Told myself I was just checking on him.
He was already in the showers. Naked. Glorious.
I watched him through the steamed-up glass door as he slid the soap over his chest. His abs. His hips.
Then…he touched himself.
Slow at first. Then faster.
I should’ve left.
But I couldn’t. I was fixated on how he handled his cock. How it grew in his hand.
When his hand started jerking hard, I gasped, and he turned, catching me spying on him. He just grinned and kept on going, but I panicked and bolted.
I’d never told anyone.
But he’d ruined me that summer. No guy had ever lived up to Sage Lockwood. I would daydream about him kissing me, of me touching him like he’d touched himself in the shower.
No man since then had lit me up like he had. Because it was always him I saw when I kissed someone. Those dark eyes. That raw power.
I had never thought another man could have that effect on me. He was an illusion, after all. A fantasy I’d built up inside my head.
But now? There was another shadow in my brain.
Mr. Man in Black.
His eyes had blazed beneath that scowl, sending fire to my core and tingles between my legs. Apparently, “dangerous badass” was my type. I found myself wanting a possessive alpha male like the ones I’d been reading about in my books.
Lord help me if I was ever actually taken by a man who feared nothing, least of all torturing a woman with the darkest of pleasures.
Why did he look at me like that?
Like I’d already been claimed.
My thighs clenched, heat pooling low in my belly.
What was wrong with me?
I’d just watched a man get murdered, inches from my face.
And here I was, fantasizing about my high school crush…and some mafia man who oozed violence and domination.
Sleep finally began to drag me under, messy and slow.
In the twilight between reality and dreams, he was there.
Watching.
Always watching.
The aroma of coffee hit me first.
Not freshly brewed. Old, dark roast. Strong. Comforting.
Glancing at the clock, I blinked against the light and sat up, groggy. My body ached like I’d been hit by a bus, and even though I’d slept until noon, I didn’t feel rested. I’d spent most of the night tossing and turning, waking every so often unsettled.
The worst dream had come right before dawn.
The man from the club who had run up onstage and tackled me had a gun in his hand this time.
He pointed it at my chest. I tried to wriggle out from under him, but my legs were pinned beneath his bulk.
I could see the bullet coming in slow motion, the way some people who’d been shot claimed they could—and then he was gone.
Ripped away. The man in black yanked the gun away and shot him point-blank in the head.
Then he scooped me up like I weighed nothing and started running.
He ran and ran, but I didn’t know where. I woke up before we got anywhere.
The smell of coffee called my name.
I rolled out of bed, shuffled to the kitchen, and stopped when I saw what was waiting on the counter.
One cup of coffee—still hot—a rectangular box, and a note scribbled in Jae’s neat handwriting:
Sugar for our sugar. Coffee’s strong enough to wake the dead. You earned a dozen doughnuts and a nap. Rest today, please. —J
On the back, in Nat’s messy scrawl:
Don’t get murdered today. Also, save me the fucking cruller. —Nat
I huffed out a quiet laugh and pulled the box closer.
Popping it open, I spied my personal trifecta of confectionary loot within the assortment—glazed, chocolate-frosted, apple fritter.
I grabbed a plate and a napkin, placed the doughnuts in a nice little stack, picked up the coffee, and headed over to the futon.
The first bite hit with warm sweetness. The second came with a flood of memories from last night.
A man had been murdered at the club, shot in front of over a hundred people.
That should be all over the news by now.
I unlocked my phone and started digging, searching local news sites, social media feeds, community alerts—anything. But there was nothing. No mention of a shooting. No buzz about the club. No police reports. No freaked-out audience member spilling the tea on TikTok.
My stomach flipped.
People were always posting about violence in this city. Fights on the subway. Fistfights in pizza shops. But a man gets shot in front of an entire crowd at a packed club, and there’s nothing ?
That wasn’t a red flag. It was unbelievable.
My skin prickled. What kind of power did people like Carlos and Ciro Delgado wield that they could make a body vanish without a trace?
How could they keep it quiet, make a crowd forget what they’d just seen?
I’d met Delgado before—and I could tell he was rich and influential—but I hadn’t sensed any crime lord undertones.
I’d been too busy running on fumes to ask questions or dig deeper into who he really was. Maybe he was more than he appeared.
My phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
I froze.
Please, not Carlos.
Another buzz.
I swallowed hard and answered, putting it on speaker. “Hello?”
A woman’s voice, warm but professional, said, “Hi, is this Lyla Oakley?”
My heart jumped. “Yes—this is she.”
“Hi, Lyla. This is Margaret Gentry, casting director for City Song at Haven Stageworks. I’m calling with some good news.”
“Really?” My voice cracked. I sat up straighter.
“We’d love to officially offer you the understudy role for Ruby Vance.”
I blinked, licked my lips, and cleared my throat, trying to sound human when I responded: “Oh—wow. Yes. Thank you… That’s—I mean, I really appreciate it.”
“You gave a lovely audition, and even though I understand this may be your first professional booking, the team responded to your energy right away. We think you’re going to do really well in the role.”
I let out a small, nervous laugh. “Thank you. That means a lot.”
“We’ve been in rehearsals for a few weeks already. Unfortunately, our previous understudy had to withdraw after a serious injury. So we’re sliding you in quickly. Your first rehearsal will be this Tuesday, November fourth, seven p.m. at our rehearsal studios on Forty-Third.”
“Got it. I’ll be there.”
“Great. You’ll get a welcome email shortly with the rehearsal schedule, contract packet, and measurement form. Please confirm by tomorrow morning that you’ve received it, and feel free to reach out if anything’s unclear.”
“I will—thank you again so much.”
“Congratulations, Lyla. We’re looking forward to having you with us. If you have any questions, just contact us here at the studio.”
“Okay. Thank you, Ms. Gentry.”
“You’re welcome. Enjoy the moment. We’ll see you Tuesday.”
The call ended.
I stared at the screen as if it might burst into confetti.
Holy shit.
I actually got it.
I dropped the phone in my lap, my doughnuts long forgotten. A wide smile stretched across my face. For just a second, everything else faded away—the blood, the club, the creep in black.
Maybe this was it.
Maybe this was how it all changed for me.
Maybe I could cut back on nights at the club, or even quit . I sat up, clutching my coffee cup, and imagined myself walking out of The Sacrifice forever.
And just like that, the giddy warmth in my chest vanished.
Could I actually leave? Would they let me?
What if they didn’t want me to leave?
What if they did worse than want me to stay? What if they—
My phone buzzed again.
Thank God—it was Jae.
I answered quickly. “Hey.”
“Hey, girl pop. You up and at it?”
“Only because I smelled coffee. It’s so divine,” I said with a soft laugh. “And thank you for the doughnuts. You got all my favorites.”
“You sound awfully chipper. I’m shocked you’re still not under the covers after last night. I figured you’d be curled in a ball, pretending the world doesn’t exist.”
“I know—I probably sound crazy right now. But I just got some really big news. Like…really good news.”
“Oh?”
“I got the understudy part for City Song . I’m going to be Ruby Vance.”
Jae screamed so loud I had to pull the phone away from my ear.
“Girl, shut the hell up! Are you serious? That’s amazing!”
I laughed, pure joy bubbling up. “I know. I still can’t believe it.”
“We have to go out tonight,” he said. “You don’t have to work, right? First Saturday night off in forever. We’re celebrating. Dinner. Drinks. Maybe a club. Come on.”
“Dinner sounds amazing,” I said, then hesitated. “I don’t know about a club though.”
“Fine. A nice dinner and then one of those cute little bars where no one’s screaming over the music. Come on, live a little.”
I laughed again. “Okay, okay. Dinner and a bar. I really can’t believe I got the role.”
“I’m calling Nat right now. You know she’s gonna want to celebrate you,” Jae squealed.
“Thanks, Jae. Really.”
“Treat yourself today, babe. Go shopping or something. Buy a hot outfit. You’re a working actress now.”
After we ended the call, I sat there a moment longer, still buzzing. Then I jumped up.
I was going shopping. I didn’t care that I had to dip into my stash—I was getting something new for tonight.
Maybe today really was the beginning of something better.