Trump came through with a bodyguard and once again, Jessica was all over him. I hung back, but he zeroed in on me. “Ohh, it’s the director,” he said. “That’s really fascinating.” We took a photo, and I know everyone has made a big deal of that picture, but I have that same one with twenty other celebrities that day. Trump kept going and I didn’t think anything of it.
And then his bodyguard came back. He was in his late forties, mostly bald except for a wisp of close-cropped light hair up top. “Mr. Trump wants to know if you can have dinner with him tonight,” he said.
I wasn’t sure what to say. Steve, my boss, overheard and stepped over. “Here’s my card,” Steve said.
The bodyguard took it, but he kept looking at me. “My name is Keith Schiller,” he said, and he gave me his number before asking for mine. “I’ll be in touch later if you are interested.”
I wasn’t. Back in my room, I called the guy I was casually dating, Mike Moz. He was working as a publicist at the time.
“You’ll never guess what happened,” I said.
“You killed Jessica and threw her in Lake Tahoe,” Moz said, deadpan.
“No, but I want to. Donald Trump wants to have dinner with me.”
That got Moz’s attention. “Well, are you gonna go?”
“No,” I said. This wasn’t for Mike’s benefit. It really didn’t even seem like an option.
“What’s wrong with you?” he said. “You have to go.” Moz was very career focused and was always telling me about the importance of relationships in business and how it’s all about who you know. “It’s a great opportunity for you. Just think of it as a once-in-a-lifetime thing.”
“I’m supposed to have dinner with Steve and Jessica,” I said. Steve was taking us out to eat, and then we were all going to a silent auction.
“You don’t want to go to that.”
“Well, I’ll see if he calls,” I said, “because I don’t care if I do or not.”
What’s funny is that sex never once entered my mind. Call me naïve, but he was one of the few straight guys—hell, any guy—who didn’t immediately stare at my tits. Plus, he seemed really struck by the fact that I was a director. And I certainly didn’t think he was asking me there as an escort. I never thought in that frame of mind because I wasn’t an escort. And the girls that did it hid it, because Wicked had a strong policy against escorting.
I was hoping there would be no call and I would just have the decision made for me. But then Keith called.
“Mr. Trump wants to know,” he said, so polite, “if you are interested in dinner tonight.”
“Okay,” I said.
He said we’d meet where Trump was staying, the Harrah’s Lake Tahoe Hotel and Casino. “Do you want me to send a car?”
“I’m okay,” I said. I’d been stuck on the golf course and in the gifting suite. It would be nice to walk. I had only brought one dress for the trip, my favorite. It was a little gold dress, and I loved it because I looked good in it and it was comfy like a T-shirt, with no straps to dig in. I called Steve as I put on a pair of gold strappy heels.
“I’m not going to go to dinner with you guys tonight,” I said.
“Oh, really,” he said, with something lascivious in his voice. “Why is that?”
“I’m having dinner with Donald Trump.”
“Okay,” he said. I couldn’t tell if he said it that way because it sounded absurd or if he anticipated something I didn’t.
The sun was starting to set as I started the walk over to the Harrah’s hotel. As I passed a tattoo parlor, I heard a voice yell from inside.
“Stormy?”
“What the…,” I said, reeling. Alana Evans, who is also an adult actress, came running out of the tattoo parlor. I didn’t know her well, but she was my downstairs neighbor in L.A. It was weird for both of us to see each other out of context.
“Are you here for the golf tournament?” I asked.
“No,” she said, brushing back her long blond hair. “I’m actually just babysitting Cindy right now.” Cindy Crawford—the adult actress, not the supermodel—was inside getting a new tattoo on her back. She looked at my gold dress and asked in her flat California accent, “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to have dinner,” I said, “with Donald Trump.”
“Oh, sure you are.”
Looking back on the conversation, I realize she 100 percent thought that I was meeting a client and that she had busted me. Having dinner with Donald Trump sounded that far-fetched.
“No, I really am,” I said. “Wicked is at the celebrity golf tournament. I met him and he wants to have dinner.”
“I bet he does.”
“Come with me,” I said.
“Well, I can’t,” Alana said, looking back at Cindy.
“Maybe if I call you, you can get out of it.”
“Oh, yeah, have Mr. Trump call me.”
She totally didn’t believe me, I thought as I walked on into the sunset. Little Red Riding Hood in strappy gold heels.
I called Keith’s number when I got to Harrah’s, assuming Trump would come down to the lobby and then we would go to dinner wherever he had chosen.
“Come on up,” said Keith. “It’s the penthouse.”
This wasn’t a red flag. I had been around enough celebrities to know sometimes they liked to show off and pull out the whole butler-and-personal-chef routine. Maybe dinner would just be upstairs.
When the elevator opened on the top floor, the penthouse was the only room on the floor. There was a huge marble foyer with a checkerboard pattern of black and white. Keith was there, guarding a giant set of double doors, with one slightly cracked.
“It’s so nice to see you,” he said. He waved a hand at the door for me to enter, and I paused.
“Go on in,” he said.
I tentatively pushed open the doors, and I remember my heels clacking on the marble. Inside the doors was a smaller foyer with a heavy wood table with a beautiful flower arrangement. And no Donald Trump.
“Helllllllooo?” I called out.
And Trump came swooping in, wearing black silk pajamas and slippers.
“Hi there,” he said.
Look at this motherfucker, I thought. I was just so mad.
“Excuse me, I have the wrong room,” I said, adding a southern edge of polite malice to my voice. “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Hefner. I’m looking for Mr. Trump.”
His jaw went slack, and his eyes bugged.
“What are you doing?” I yelled. “Go put some fucking clothes on.”
Like some sort of cartoon, he whizzed out of the foyer. I continued on into the room, which looked like an apartment. There was a long sideboard table with wineglasses and a complete living room setup and dining room table. I threw my purse on the couch and sat down, resigned to waiting for this idiot to get dressed.
I think he was scared I was going to leave, because he was back almost instantly. It was like he went in the phone booth and leapt out in a full suit. It was a nice one, dark navy, which he’d paired with a tie.
“That’s more appropriate,” I said. I was still mad.
“Can I get you a drink?” he asked, reflexively walking over to the wineglasses.
“Oh, I don’t drink,” I said.
He paused. “And you’re…” He stopped himself. I know he really wanted to say, “You’re a porn star and you don’t drink?”
“No,” I said.
“At all?”
“No.”