Pamela Anderson - Star Struck

“Bowling alley,” he said, still not looking at her.

“Too big.” She laughed. “We’ll never find the balls. So what’s up? Coffee?”

“Ta-dah,” he proclaimed, wheeling to greet her, stark naked and presenting a rather splendid breakfast tray. “The most important meal of the day—breakfast.”

She dissolved into fits of laughter as she looked at the tray.

“You can cook!” Star said with delight, clapping her hands, pleased to know something practical about him. In fact, pleased to know anything about him at all.

“Let’s eat outside,” he suggested, strolling out of the house onto the patio.

“And do the neighbors care that we’re not formally dressed?” Star asked, following him out to the pool.

“It’s one of the reasons I got this place,” he explained, setting out the food on a wrought-iron table near the pool. “It’s right next to a nature preserve on one side and a cliff on the other. So there are no neighbors.”

Star had to admit that he was a very good cook. Granted, fruit, fried eggs, and toast weren’t that challenging, but nothing was burned and the presentation was imaginative. The two grapefruit halves had cherries in the center. “Hmm,” she said, holding them up to her chest. “Freudian. Got something on your mind?”

“Just breastfast,” he grinned.

“It’s a great house.” Star looked around for a chair to pull up to the iron table. “Lots of potential,” she added, mentally decorating the place when Jimi leaped abruptly into the pool, reemerging with first one, and then a second wrought-iron chair to match the table. Placing each on the deck, he leaped adroitly from the water and made his way over to Star with the chairs. More amazing to her than his behavior was the fact that the chairs actually matched the table.

“What else is down there?” she asked, peering tentatively over the side.

“Not much now,” Jimi shrugged. “For a couple of weeks there was a 1967 Cadillac convertible after a kick-off party we had for one of our albums, I forget which.”

“Whose car?” she asked, taking her chair. The wet iron was chilly against her bare skin.

“Not sure,” he said, toying with the left grapefruit. “Seems almost painful to break up the set now.”

She gave a little rumble of laughter. “So, how’d the car wind up there?”

“Parking,” he said with a vague air.

Breakfast in the warm morning sun was easy and pleasant; their worries were soon forgotten as they laughed and talked together.

“Do you want anything else?” he asked as the plates were pushed aside.

“Umm-hmm,” Star grinned, slipping under the table and taking him in her mouth.

Jimi was impressed with Star’s place. It was filled with French antiques. Though some, like the “real Parisian sidewalk,” were of dubious origin, none was of the distressed and pickle-white American type. It was girly, but he had to admit it was well put together. Lots of cool stuff like the PlayStation and the big-screen TV, an excellent stereo system, video game system, and lots of furniture that was more about how it felt than how it looked. And it looked great. Too much pink for his taste, but otherwise, a thumbs-up. And two thumbs-up for the fully stocked bar that he hit hard.

Star was relieved to be home for the first time in three weeks. She immediately called Engel, her buddy from the Lifeguards crew who was dog-sitting with Mutley, to check on her beloved pooch and to get him over to the house as soon as possible. Then she hit the showers to wash off what was left of Cabo.

Jimi snooped around a bit, getting to know more about her, but if you look for something long enough, you’ll find it.

He had been looking for more game cartridges. What he found was a drawer full of men’s clothes.

Star had decided that the shower was not quite enough and was just sinking into a tub full of gardenia-scented bubbles when the door to the bathroom flew open and Jimi began emptying the drawer full of clothes into the tub with her.

“What the hell are these?” he demanded.

“Um, I don’t know,” Star said, unsure of just how to react.

“The question is, whose clothes are these?” Jimi screamed, leaning down closer as though she might not hear him.

“Is there some kind of prize?” Star asked, trying for humor.

“You think this is funny?”

“Not anymore,” she sighed, getting out of the tub full of wet clothes and crushed gardenia bubbles. “So what’s the problem, Jimi?”

“They’re men’s clothes!” he leaned in and shouted again.

“Yeah?” Star said, losing patience. “Come on, you think you’re the first?”

She shoved her way past and stepped back into the shower to wash off the remains of her ruined bubble bath.

Jimi was stunned and chastened. Her complete lack of intimidation or even reaction to his bullying startled him.

“I’m sorry, hon, it just freaked me out,” he said, sitting on the side of the tub, still holding the drawer.

“Duh,” her voice echoed inside the shower.

Jimi didn’t know exactly what to do. With his ex-wife there had never really been anything to deal with. She’d done things pretty much her way, and he’d either gone along or been left behind. They’d never really fought, but then they’d never really talked either. She’d never given him reason to be jealous, and frankly, he’d never really paid her that much attention.

“Look, Jimi,” Star said gently, emerging from the shower. “I’m in love with you. I’ve never felt like this before. And I can’t explain it. But I don’t know a damned thing about you. And you don’t know anything about me. This is just something to know about me. Did I see other men before we met? Yes. But it’s over now, I married you. The end. Okay?”

“Okay,” Jimi said, taking the towel from her and gently drying her off.

“Did you?”

“See other men before we met?” Jimi asked.

She laughed.

“I’ve taken full advantage of being a rock star. I’ve been mostly single for the past two years,” he said with a little shrug. “I had a serious girlfriend. And I was married. Twice.”

“Really? Well, then, you already know how this works.”

“If I did I’d still be married, right?”

She laughed. “So, does it bother you that I’ve been with other men?”

“No,” he shrugged. “When I think about it, it seems kind of hot. Like I’d like to watch.”

“Yeah,” she giggled, and then caught his eye and stopped. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He grinned. “Like live porn.”

“We can do anything we want,” she said, climbing onto his lap and licking the side of his face as he’d done to her the first time they met. “Anything?”

They laughed at their shared secret for a moment, and then he buried his face in her breasts.

The doorbell rang.

“Mutley!” Star shouted, snatching a robe from the hook behind the bathroom door. “Mutley’s home. Why don’t you clean this mess up and then come meet the only competition you’ve got.”

The wet towel smacked him on the side of the head.

The pictures were a sensation. The shots of two of them, breakfasting naked at Jimi’s, Star’s feet sticking out from under the table, her head in his lap, began appearing on the cover of every questionable publication on the planet, and even a few fairly respectable ones, almost before they’d done the dishes.

Star was at a loss.

The press had always been persistent, but this was a whole new dimension. This kind of coverage was like breaking and entering. Jimi took it even worse than she did. They’d been walking back to Star’s after breakfast at The Omelet Shoppe when they’d passed a newsstand virtually plastered with the pictures. They froze for a second as they realized what they were seeing. And then Jimi began railing and shredding the papers and magazines.