The Masked Singer

[Chapter Seventeen]

"Let's do this." My weakly smile turns into a stronger one as I chant those few words over and over in my head.

When the elevator doors ping open, I'm instantly hit with the strong smell of gardenia. I have to hold myself back from sneezing. The air in New York label is stagnant, perhaps the air freshener would be better suited.

The building is far less compared to New York, which is understandable. However, the soft creamy blue walls and dark brown wooden furniture gives the place a much homier feel than the office like environment NY goes for

The room is split in half by a gigantic glass wall. On the opposite side, there's a large setup of electric guitars, piano, drum set and a microphone. Opposed to the soundboard and viewing leather couch.

"You must be the newest edition to the New York label," says Mr Cater.

He's a freakishly tall man with a thin body frame. The black slacks he's wearing seem to accentuate his long legs, along with the black company shirt making his skin pale, with a sickly tinged yellow glow from the overhead lights. His narrow face and short black spiky hair make his face look small, and somewhat like a hamster.

"Yes I am," I reply.  

"Unfortunately, we could only get your manager here. The artist you will be working with is expected to be here tomorrow morning," Mr Carter says. 

"Oh." I frown.

I'm more disappointed that I'm going to have to wait until tomorrow to find out who they are, I doubt Dad is going to spill the beans.

The air is an awful awkward one until the mobile phone sitting on the sound desk begins to ring loudly. Mr Carter's eye's pop open as he runs over to the desk to answer it. He tries to position his body facing away from us, but his beady eyes are closely watching the two of us.

What does he think is going to happen if he looks away? That I might steal the equipment I'm going to be working with in the coming days?

"Are you going to tell me now?" I whisper, turning my body to face Dad. 

"Nope." 

"Why." I frown. 

"You're going to have to wait until tomorrow," he teases.  

"I hate you." I pout. 

"Love you too," he whispers, back with a cheeky grin. 

We wait in silence for a couple of minutes so that we don't interrupt Mr. Cater's phone call. Every time my eyes wander over in his direction, the sound of his voice drops even more which makes it harder for me to listen. If he wasn't whispering and making his conversation sound so important and secretive, I wouldn't be so curious to what he's up to. It's clearly his own fault.

"Thank you for that news, I'll be sure to let them know," he concludes. Mr. Carter hangs up the phone, and then faces us.

"It turns out I got it mixed up," he explains with a worried face. "We can get started on writing the album this afternoon. Isn't that wonderful?" he says, smiling brightly. While it looks like he's shaking in he's overly polished black shoes.

My heart drops, "perfect," I whisper. 

"He'll be here in a couple of minutes. Apparently his plane got in half an hour before yours," Mr. Carter explains. "Perfect timing, right?" he asks, trying to strike up a conversation.

"Just amazing. I'm excited to start writing," I mumble.

My heart sinks, I hoped I would get a chance to sit on the beach and explore for a couple of days before returning here. I need all of this to sync in before I act on it.