"You got somebody you can crash with?" Charlie asked.

"Yes," I said. "Yes, I think I do."

"Good. I want you to call me when you get there so I know you made it."

"Okay."

"The chief is on the other line. I've got to go. Call me."

"Charlie . . . ?"

But he was gone. And I was alone again.

I finished packing up my gym bag, and hurried down the wooded path toward the parking lot. The Taurus was the last vehicle left. I was surprised no one had offered to stay with me until I was ready to leave given the dramatic events that happened earlier, but I wasn't about to win any popularity contests on this job.

I jumped behind the wheel and drove straight into the glittery lights of South Beach. I didn't stop until I reached a parking space marked VISITOR in front of a boat slip off Ocean Avenue occupied by the QE3 houseboat.

As I approached the front door, I suddenly felt foolish. What was I doing? I was a grown man who could take care of myself, and here I was about to ask a complete stranger to put me up because I was too afraid to spend the night alone. Despite Charlie's orders, I wasn't going to be some kind of damsel in distress. No. I would go back to my hotel room, order a nice big juicy steak so I would have a sharp knife to defend myself with, and tough it out. I walked back to the Taurus and was about to get in when the door to the houseboat flew open. Bowie stood there wearing a pair of shorts and nothing else. The lights from the marina illuminated every contour of his muscular torso. Damn. It was going to be a lot harder to leave now.

"I thought that was you. I was making some dinner and saw you through the kitchen window," he said, a warm smile on his face.

"I . . . I don't want to bother you. Go back to what you were doing."

"I've made enough for two. Why don't you come in?"

I wanted to. I really did. But it didn't feel right. No. I had to leave now.

But then again, I would just be doing what Charlie wanted me to do. Right? He was adamant. He didn't want me by myself tonight. I would be openly defying the wishes of my boyfriend. And what would that say about our relationship? I had gone against Charlie enough lately. It was time I started to listen to him. At least that was how I convinced myself it would be okay to spend the evening with Bowie Lassiter.

"Thank you," I said. "I'd love to."

Bowie opened the door wide, welcoming me inside.

After a feast of seafood pasta, spinach salad, and warm chocolate cake, Bowie and I settled down on his couch to polish off the last of our third bottle of Chardonnay, our bellies stuffed and our eyes drowsy. Over dinner I had told him about the Wendell Butterworth drama, and he was happy to know I trusted him enough to put myself in his hands. Figuratively, of course.

As we sat on the couch, our knees slightly brushed against each other's. I felt woozy and naughty and none of that was good. I had to go to bed. Alone.

"Bowie, I really appreciate you letting me stay here," I said, as I yanked my knee away from his so they were no longer touching.

"I have to admit," he said with a sly smile, "I was pretty stoked when I saw you loitering outside the houseboat."

"Loitering?" I said, feigning indignation. "I wasn't loitering."

"Yes, you were. You were debating with yourself about whether or not you were going to come in."

How humiliating. He was completely aware of my attraction to him.

"But I'm glad things worked out the way they did," he said as he reached out and planted a hand on my knee, drawing it back closer to his. Then, using my knee to steady himself, Bowie leaned in slowly. His lips were about to touch mine when suddenly I jerked back, spilling my wine all over his couch.

"Oh, damn, I'm so sorry," I said, wiping the already stained upholstery with my hand.

"Don't worry about it. It's white wine. And the couch is pretty much trashed already if you hadn't noticed," he said with a chuckle.

Our eyes met, and he took my hand. "Hey, I'm sorry if I was moving too fast for you. I just really like you a lot."

"Bowie, I'm so sorry. But I have to tell you, I'm in a relationship."

"Oh," he said.

"I'm not going to say you got the wrong impression. I gave you the impression I wanted you to have. I didn't mention it before on purpose, and I feel lousy about that."

"It's cool. Don't worry about it." He was trying hard not to look disappointed, but was having a difficult time of it.

My cell phone chirped from inside my coat pocket.

"Excuse me," I said.

"Sure." He stood up and carried the empty bottle of Chardonnay into the kitchen. I fumbled through the pockets of my coat before finding the one storing my cell phone.

"Hello?" I said.

"Hey, babe," Charlie said. "Did you get to your friend's safely?"

"Yes," I said. "I'm here now."

"Good. You don't know how much better that makes me feel."

"I'll call you tomorrow from the set."

"No need to do that. I'll be there by then."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm at the airport now," Charlie said. "I'm taking an overnight flight to Miami that arrives in the morning. I'll be there by six."

"Charlie, really, you don't have to-"

"I know I don't have to," he said. "I want to. I want to see you. And I want to be there with you if that freak pops up again."

I glanced over at Bowie. He was scraping a few stray noodles from the seafood pasta off our plates into the garbage can before stacking the dirty dishes in the sink. He caught me looking and I swiftly averted my eyes.

"So where are you?" Charlie asked. "I'll just come there to pick you up."

"No," I said much too quickly. "Let's meet back at the hotel. The Ritz Plaza. You have the address."

"Okay, sounds good, babe. Sleep well."

"Good night, Charlie."

I was about to hang up when I heard his voice pipe up again. "Wait. What's the name and number of your friend so I can call in case the flight's late or something?"

I hesitated, but in the interest of full disclosure, I said. "Bowie Lassiter."

"Are you serious?" he said.

"Yes. He lives off Ocean Avenue-"

"On a houseboat called the QE3."

"How did you know?"

"Jarrod, that's my friend. The one in Miami who I've been calling for information."

I could almost hear God laughing.

Chapter 22.

"You're that actor? Charlie's boyfriend?" Bowie said as he grabbed his wineglass, swished the last of his Chardonnay around, and then swallowed it in one big gulp.

"Small world, isn't it?" I said, instantly embarrassed by the lameness of my response.

I was still reeling from the shock. So was Bowie. After hanging up with Charlie, I knew I had to disclose everything. I didn't want any secrets coming back to haunt me. Secrets inevitably have a way of doing that.

"It makes sense now that I think about it," Bowie said. "Charlie called me to find out the dirt on Martinez, and then I run into you spying on him. Kind of funny we didn't figure it out before."

"Yeah, it's a laugh riot," I said. I wanted to get out of there. I was so consumed by guilt and confusion, and now with Charlie winging his way south, I had a desperate need to regroup. "Bowie-"

"Hey," he said, stopping me. "No worries. You were up front with me. You told me you were involved before anything happened. Everything's cool."

"So you and Charlie are old friends?"

"Yeah," he said with a smile. "Just old friends."

"He's on his way to Florida," I said. "I told him I'd meet him at the hotel when he gets here in the morning."

"What about this Butterworth dude?" he said.

"If I'm lucky, right now he's waiting for me in my hotel room with a loaded pistol, ready to put me out of my misery."

Bowie chuckled. "Seriously, you want me to escort you back there to make sure it's safe?"

Handsome and chivalrous. Charlie was on his way. Charlie was on his way. I had to keep telling myself that. "No. I'm a big boy. I can take care of myself." Yeah, right. The first sign of trouble, and I hightailed it over to a Navy Seal's houseboat to hide out. "Thanks for dinner. I had a great time."

"Me too," he said.

He walked me to the door. I resisted the urge to give him a hug good night. Hugs can lead to a kiss. And one kiss can lead to more kisses. And kisses can lead to . . . well, then you're screwed. Literally.

"Good night," I said.

"Good night, Jarrod."

I slipped behind the wheel of the Taurus, and as I drove back up Ocean Avenue toward the Ritz Plaza, I glanced through the rearview mirror and saw him standing in the doorway of the houseboat, watching me. He was still there when I turned right onto a side street, heading for Collins Avenue.

I got back to my hotel room without incident. Apparently Wendell had suspended his stalking activities for the night. Even delusional nutcases need their beauty sleep.

I climbed into bed, picked up my Creeps script off the night table, and turned to an earmarked page a third of the way through it to study the scene of me arriving at the campground with my son. We were scheduled to shoot it the day after tomorrow, and I needed to memorize the dialogue. Movie scenes are almost always shot out of sequence. The order is designed to accommodate a wide variety of considerations such as location availability and actors' schedules. So it was not unusual that my death scene was in the can before my first appearance in the movie. After reading it through a few times, my eyelids became heavy, and I fought to keep them open, but within moments I had drifted off to sleep.

I shot up at the sound of the phone ringing. No. It couldn't be Amy Jo to pick me up. I had gone over the production schedule five times to make sure I wasn't shooting today. "Please, God, don't be Amy Jo!" I thought as I reached across for the phone.

"Hello?"

"Hi, babe, it's me," said a reassuring voice. Charlie.

"Hey, how was your flight?"

"Good. We're downstairs. What room are you in?"

"Eight-oh-six," I said.

"Okay, we'll be right up."

Click. Wait a minute. "We'll be right up?" Charlie wasn't alone? Had he gone to his old pal Bowie's place first to pick him up? Were we going to be the happy threesome sightseeing around South Beach? I felt queasy, and those lingering pangs of guilt only exacerbated my upset stomach.

I threw on a black and white Creeps sweatshirt that Larry had handed out to the cast and crew on the first day of production, and slipped on a pair of gray sweatpants just as there was a knock on the door. When I opened it, Charlie stood there beaming, and then enveloped me in a big bear hug.

"Man, it's good to see you," he said, squeezing so hard I thought my bones would crack. He let up on his grip and then kissed me gently on the lips. Maybe there was something to that whole "absence makes the heart grow fonder" theory.

"Surprise!"

It wasn't Bowie. The voice was decidedly more feminine. And more direct than a bulldozer. It could be only one person.

"Laurette!" I said, with as much fake enthusiasm as I could muster. This was not good. The jig was up for Juan Carlos. With his multiple affairs the talk of the set, it was only a matter of time before Laurette got wind of them.

She pushed her way into the room, inspecting the decor. "What a dump."

"Maybe you can get a suite or something that has better furniture," I said.

"Oh, please, I'm not staying here. I'm a couple of doors down at the Delano. Five stars. Very chic. Somebody saw George Clooney in the lobby checking in about a half hour before I did." It would only be a matter of time before Laurette befriended the entire staff and would know Clooney's room number.

Laurette plopped down on the bed, her purse in her lap. "I'll have Juan Carlos's things moved over. What room is he in? I want to surprise him."

Bad idea. Very, very bad. "I don't know," I lied. "But I'm sure he's already left for the set. I think he had an early call."