Pamela Anderson - Star Struck

THANKS

To Mom and Dad for having a sense of humor and supplying me with one in the face of life’s ups and downs.

To my brother, Gerry Anderson, for being there for me through thick and thin, and for helping me with this manuscript and supplying great advice and direction/ confirmation—huge help! He’s such a talent—writer, producer, and director… watch out!

To my children, Brando and Dilly, whom I love desperately, for giving me the idea and inspiration for staying home and writing so I could spend more time with them… the universe does validate good decisions.

To Eric Shaw Quinn—of course… my partner in crime on this project—are you me or am I you? The lines have blurred and you are wearing my shoes… and they’re trashed—you’ve walked more than a mile!

To my editor, Brenda… you have always been a great supporter and believed in this from the start… another bestseller to add to your list? Thank you for everything.

To Judith—the boss at Simon and Schuster!—thanks for allowing me to be creative and not forcing me into a “Pammyland” concept! I’m on to you—all is forgiven.

To Hefner, for helping to build interesting adventures in our lives, empowering women… and for just being you!

To David LaChapelle, Luca, and Jesus… talented, genius, eccentric, and honest! My favorite people—friends whom I lean on and who put me out if I catch on fire You remind me of what’s important besides family: art.

To all the people I love and work with… and whom make life easier… or just more interesting… especiailly: everyone at PETA, and Dan Mathews (my other gay husband), everyone at MAC, Melanie Arthur, Lori and Kylie Anderson, Michael Ullman, Barry Tyerman, Steven Pranica, Amanda, Tommy, Chef Jay, Charisse, Sue, Harper and Michael, Jamie, J. P., Steve Levitan, and everyone at Stacked, Spade, Stern, Leno… and/or whoever I’m…

Why do my nipples hurt? was Star’s first thought as she woke from a strangely deep sleep, her hands gliding along her naked body to the tender nipples that had awakened her. She winced as she made contact, realizing only belatedly that she was naked. Star tried to open her eyes but couldn’t; the room was too bright. She raised her hand to shield her view, only to be blinded by a huge diamond ring that hadn’t been on her finger when she went to sleep.

When had she gone to sleep? And where?

Stretching, Star reached up to push back her hair as she tried to get her bearings and she struck herself on the forehead with the chrome handle of the Colt .45 she was holding in her right hand. She screamed and fell off the dresser on which she’d been perched. The gun went off, taking out a glass table top that shattered into four-carat chunks of safety glass.

Star stared at the revolver in her hand. She’d never even touched a gun before, but here she was, naked except for a pair of Gucci boots, a strange diamond ring, and a gun welded to her hand.

What the hell was going on?

Why did everything feel so strange? So blurry?

She was hungry but didn’t have an appetite. Her skin felt alive, vibrating gently against her every nerve ending. The sun was so bright she could hardly see and the carpet was so soft it tickled her bare ass where she sat, puzzled, on the floor.

Looking around, Star was relieved to see that she was still in her hotel room in Cabo. Well, what was left of her hotel room. Pictures had been torn off the wall and defaced; cushions from the chairs and sofa had been built into a fort in the middle of the room; tables were stacked to the ceiling; and dozens of empty Cristal bottles, scattered everywhere, prompted her to wonder if the damages would be covered under the “incidentals” clause in her modeling contract.

As she further surveyed the damage, Star noticed the unmade bed that was a confusion of sheets, pillows, and strangely chosen items from around the room—a candlestick, an ice bucket, and a selection of well-placed objets d’art. Condoms, some used, some blown up like balloons, also littered the space. “Well, I’m glad we played safe,” she said with a little laugh, swatting one of the oddly shaped balloons out of her way. That’s when she saw the tiny video camera and a few dozen tapes strewn across the coffee table, along with the remnants of several lines of cocaine. How odd, Star reflected. I don’t do drugs. I wonder who’s been here? Her musings turned to panic as she saw a pair of bare feet sticking out from beneath the tangle of Frette sheets, next to a blender that must have been taken from the room’s wet bar. Actually, the blender was working double duty because its cord had been used to bind the mysterious pair of ankles to the bedposts.

A modern-day Goldilocks, Star crept closer. Who are these feet attached to? And what are they doing in my bed? Tentatively, she reached out and touched a big toe with the barrel of the gun. A small, strangled cry escaped her throat as the toe responded, wiggling as if to get away from the cold steel barrel. Star put her hand over her mouth, felt the strange diamond against her cheek, and pulled it away.

She felt so naked.

Well, aside from the boots and the ring, she was naked. But it wasn’t just that she didn’t have any clothes on. She felt vulnerable—raw and exposed. Try as she might, she could not remember what had happened last night, could not remember how she’d wound up asleep on the dresser, and could not guess who this might be in her bed. She stood frozen for a minute, listening to the muffled cries coming from under the sheets.

Star made her way around the bed looking for clues to identify the stranger. She found nothing. It was a man; that much was clear from the rather sizable tent pole raised under the sheets. But who? Surely, she would remember an erection like that, she thought with a playful giggle, reaching out and giving the massive morning wood a tap. The moans changed, a different tone now, at least an octave lower.

Finally, she could stand it no longer. She reached for the hem of the crumpled sheet, ready to expose the identity of the well-endowed stranger… but then her phone rang, startling her as it played its version of “You Shook Me All Night Long.”

Star pulled back, oddly frightened by the old AC/DC song that had shattered the silence.

Should she answer it?

The phone rang again. It echoed in the room and in her head.

Would it seem suspicious not to answer it?

It rang.

And rang.

What time was it anyway?

Taking a deep breath, Star answered it.

“Hello?” she said softly, moving away from the body in the bed.

“Star? Honey, is that you?”

“Who is this?”

“It’s Rufus,” the caller said with a startled laugh.

She considered the information for a moment. Everything seemed so strange. She felt dizzy and medicated.

“Your boyfriend?” he said, when she didn’t answer, an edge in his voice.

“Hi, baby, I’m sorry,” she said, scratching her nose with the gun. “I just woke up and I’m not feeling right.”

“Not feeling right?” he said, curious at her strange choice of words. “What do you mean, ‘not feeling right’? And why are you whispering?”

“Are you working for the CIA?” she asked sharply, closing the bathroom door behind her.