The Masked Truth

Chapter Three

However, light always seems to irritate any sleeping person. I walk towards her curtains and rip them apart to allow some light into this dark space.

The light quickly fills every inch of the room, and also highlights how messy this place is. There's clothing all over the floor and hanging off the end of her bed. Her desk is filled with papers which go all the way up the wall on her large pin-up board.

I'd like to believe I'm better with my organisation, but I'm probably much the same with my creative wall. It's organised to me at least. It's sectioned, colour coded and has a place, I can't say the same for Lucy's desk.

"Hello?" I call out.

"Grr." She pulls the blanket over her head and hides under.

"Late night?" I chuckle.

I put her coffee on the side table as I take a seat on the side of her bed. Slowly, I grab the blanket and tug it from her. Lucy has a tight hold, but I manage to pull it away from her face so the beautiful warm light can shine down on her. I have to bite my lip to stop myself from laughing at her face. Black maraca and eye line is smudged under her eyes, and her hair is smashed, knotted and all over the place.

"Late party night?" I ask.

Lucy presses her finger against her lips, "Shh..." she says.

"I got coffee?"

"I'm going to need more than coffee," she moans in dismay.

"You've got me and a whole heap of shopping ahead of us today," I offer.

"You're supposed to be helpful," Lucy continues to grumble.

I get off the bed and walk around the room while searching for some clothing for Lucy to wear. I find a pair of blue jeans, and a white singlet to with some text printed across it. I throw it on her head and tell her to get dressed.

"We're leaving in ten, dressed or not." I walk out of her bedroom and wait in the main living space. Her roommate Sasha is standing in the kitchen making coffee when I step out.

She's a very beautiful girl, and she definitely fits the stereotype of a fashion designer, but in a good way. She's tall, long flowing hair, beautiful light chocolate skin, and is in good physical shape. I bet she could be a fashion model with her loud personality and expressive facial expressions, but apparently she prefers the backstage atmosphere rather than the pressure of the runway. I don't blame her either.

"Hey?" she calls out.

"Hi!" I blush slightly, not realising she's in the apartment. I feel slightly bad for making so much noise.

Sasha is the first person I've probably met who openly hates The Masked Singer. The first time I met her, she asked me my thoughts on Sienna, and all I did was shrug my shoulders and say she's okay.

I then had to listen to a whole two hour rant about how she's stuck up, prissy and produces music which is destroyed and reproduced by her label. And that was just the start – crazy fan girls came later. I could agree on certain elements, like my talent going to waste, but not about her dissing the amazing people who support me – that crossed the line.

I'd hate to know what she'd say if she ever found out. I mean, the world will eventually discover the truth, and hopefully within the next coming months. But still, I'm not sure if I want to be in ear short when that happens.

"Coffee?" she asks.

"No." I shake my head, "I just picked one up from Starbucks before, but thank you."