Page 88 of False Promises

CARTER

My phone went off as soon as I landed my ass in the hotel suite in New York. That Talent, the show I was invited to as a guest judge for the next month, had booked me a room with a majestic view of Central Park. From here, I could see the track circling the park and already, my legs tingled at the idea I could go for a run anytime I felt like it.

Fifteen-foot-high ceilings, honey hardwood floors, birch tree shimmery wallpaper opposite the floor-to-ceiling-window wall in the living room section, combined with silver and eggplant-purple furniture, the place looked grandiose. Thanks to the open floorplan, the space gave the impression it was a loft instead of a hotel suite. Gigantic pieces of art hung on the white walls of the dining room. The bedroom, hidden from the entrance behind a wall of exotic green foliage, consisted of a California king bed with a high headboard and nightstands on both sides and an en-suite white-marbled bathroom. The place screamed elegance. A far cry from that awful over-the-top suite in Las Vegas or the country chic vibe of my penthouse in Nashville. I felt great here. And calm.

This gig was like nothing I ever had done before. During the week, I would help the contestants with songwriting and melodies, and on Sunday nights, I would be sitting at the judges’ table and helping to determine who would advance to the next round. When I first got the offer, I wasn’t ecstatic about the idea of booting contestants home every week. Judging people based on one performance felt wrong. Everyone was allowed to have a bad day. And it shouldn’t impact their dreams and future. One night, June came over to my place and convinced me to give it a try after she forced me to watch a dozen episodes with her. “Those kids need your guidance,” she had said. And so, I had agreed to be a part of this adventure. Now that my life was in complete chaos, I couldn’t be happier to be as far away from Los Angeles as possible, this time for a longer period.

“Hey, found anything?” I asked Taylor on video chat. While he worked on Savannah’s case, Ed had been assigned as the main security detail for my stay in the Big Apple. We got along just fine. We weren’t close friends like Taylor and me, but the guy was dedicated and smart and could keep people away when I was out and about.

He scratched his jaw. “Well, there’s no record of Savannah Prince going back over three years ago.”

“Strange,” I said.

“Yeah. The firm we hired to do a screening of her when you both first got together fucked up. They should have seen it. I can’t understand how they missed this piece of information.”

“Riley was right. What does it mean?” I asked, my mouth getting drier by the second.

“She’s a ghost, man. No past. No records. Nothing. We’ve got those partial fingerprints you sent over. I’ll ask my friend at the district to run them. Hopefully, he’ll come back with an ID. We’ll keep digging. This screams fishy from miles away,” he added. “Burns’s lawyers searched California databases, school and medical records. Nothing. The timing in New York couldn’t be more perfect. While you’re there, forget about Savannah. Let us deal with this shit while you enjoy the experience. We’ll call you in a couple of days with an update. Hang on, Carter. I’m sorry you got mixed into this.”

“Yeah, well… Thanks.” We hung up, and instead of exerting myself like I would normally do, I decided to try to relax. My body was exhausted from the hours of training I’d piled up in the last few weeks. After I showered, I slipped under the covers and prayed sleep would claim me and ease my mind.

The knock on the door woke me up the next morning. Unplugging my phone from the charger, I looked at the time. Ten-twenty-two. I didn’t remember the last time I had slept in. Stretching my arms over my head and sliding my legs into a pair of sweatpants, I opened the door.

“Surprise!”

My blood iced. My tongue stuck to my palate. My thumbs rubbed my eyes, desperate to clear my vision. This was a nightmare.

I regained some of my composure, steeled my back, and moved to the side to let my guest in.

“You’re not happy to see me?” Savannah asked with a pout, rolling a huge suitcase behind her.

“Huh, I-I didn’t expect you.”

“Well, you invited me to join you a while back.” She lifted both arms in the air. “Here I am.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

“Stop with the attitude, Carter. You should hug and kiss me because you missed me. How can you not?” She shook her head as she looked around. “Not bad. I thought you would have requested a bigger suite.” She shrugged. “It will do.”

My hand clamped my nape after I put a T-shirt on. “How long are you staying?” All the possible answers to that question made me dizzy. I crossed the fingers of my other hand behind my back. Please say you’re not staying.

“Until tomorrow night. I have big plans for us. I’ll show you what a committed relationship should look like. Hope you’re ready.”

I blinked. Why was I still surprised by her actions and words? “I’m busy all afternoon, and we’re filming the live segment tonight, which means I won’t be done until maybe ten.”

She huffed, crossing her arms and pouting. “And now I’ll be all alone. All my calls are sent to voicemails, you don’t text me during the day, and when you do, it’s short, vague messages that lack emotions. Aren’t you gonna beg me to stay with you while you’re stuck in New York?” She batted her lashes. “I know you miss me. Why aren’t you showing me how much already?”

Act casual, man. For once, don’t let your non-poker face betray you.

“I can’t stay, but make yourself at home.” I cringed inside as the words passed my lips. “Let’s meet at ten-thirty at the bar downstairs tonight. We could grab a bite.” Would she catch the bait? The last thing I wanted was for her to ask to join me backstage or on set.

“Okay. I’ll go shopping. You’re really selfish, Carter. I flew here to spend time with you, and you prefer to work. Do you know how much flight tickets cost?” She flicked her wrist. “Whatever.”

And as fast as she’d stormed into my room, Savannah was gone, slamming the door behind her. As if a tornado had hit the hotel suite, the peaceful space was left ravaged, her baggage discarded on the floor, and her perfume imprinting every molecule of air around me.

Standing there, I wondered if I had just dreamed the last five minutes of my life.

At nine-forty-five that night, we were done filming the first Sunday night live episode when my phone buzzed with a text. Tension rolled to my shoulders in apprehension of the next twenty-four hours. I let out a deep sigh at the name flashing on my screen.