“I wish it was not so dreary today,” he said, “because the view is fabulous.
“I’m still working on your thing, darling,” he said quickly as I looked out on the fog blanketing Central Park. “Where are you dancing? It’s so nice to see you.”
I was dancing at a club called Gallagher’s 2000 in Long Island City, but he barely let me get half of that out before he started talking again. I stopped him short by making fun of his eyebrows.
“You gotta trim that stuff,” I said, maybe showing off for Yoli but mostly just keeping him in check. “They’re out of control. You look like a Muppet.”
“I’m so busy,” he said, laughing. “I’m dealing with all this beauty pageant stuff.”
Yoli perked up. She loved pageants, and honestly, it was hard to get her excited about anything.
“Do you want to go to the pageant?” he asked me.
“Yes!” Yoli screamed before I could say anything.
Fuck, I thought.
“Oh, I’ll get you the best seats,” he said. “It’s in Hollywood. It will be fabulous. Fabulous.”
The Miss USA pageant was the following week, on March 23. Trump sent a limo to pick up me and Yoli, who was practically vibrating with excitement. It was at the Kodak Theater in L.A., which was at least nice for me because that’s where they host the Academy Awards.
I went to the Will Call. “There should be two tickets for Stormy Daniels.”
“Okaaay,” said the woman. “Who set them aside for you?”
“Uh, Mr. Trump?”
She seemed surprised, and I had a momentary panic that we had gotten Yoli’s hopes up for nothing. Maybe he was afraid to use his name?
“Here we go,” said the woman. “These are great seats.”
She was right. They were about five rows back, behind press and family. Yoli was riveted, but I don’t remember any of it. I saw Trump onstage, but I didn’t interact with him at all. He called me after so I could assure him it was great.
The pageant host, Nancy O’Dell, was pregnant, and we would all later find out that Trump had used that as an excuse to try to fire her. Nancy was the “Nancy” Trump was talking about turning him down on the 2005 Access Hollywood “grab ’em by the pussy” tape released by The Washington Post in October 2016. “I did try and fuck her. She was married. And I moved on her very heavily…. I moved on her like a bitch, but I couldn’t get there. And she was married. Then all of a sudden, I see her, she’s now got the big phony tits and everything.”
Hey, watch how you talk about big phony tits, asshole.
And then Shark Week happened.
The evening of July 29, 2007, Moz drove me to meet Trump at the Beverly Hills Hotel on Sunset Boulevard. By then, Moz and I were more serious, and I still had never told him that I had had sex with Trump.
As we drove up the driveway lined with palm trees, I went over my escape plan with Moz. “If I text you, call me and say it’s an emergency.”
“He’s not going to kill you, Stormy,” he said.
“In case he makes a move, you’ve gotta get me out of there.”
Keith Schiller met me outside the hotel and led me to one of the private bungalows in the back of the hotel. The cottages, with pastel pink and green exteriors, were tucked in among acres of citrus trees and flowers that were absolutely beautiful. Keith let me into Trump’s bungalow, where he was waiting.
“Honey bunch,” he said, “you made it. I’m ordering us dinner. You must have the steak. It is fabulous. Fabulous.”
I was just relieved that we were actually going to have food this time.
“We’re almost a done deal getting you on the show,” he said. This season they were doing it with celebrities, which he assured me I was. “You’re a star, darling,” he said.
“Well, that would be great,” I said. “I would love to be on the show.” Why the hell else was I hanging out with him? Clearly, I wanted to be on the show.
“We gotta figure out the challenges,” he said. “The season hasn’t started yet, so I don’t know what we’re gonna do. But we’ll figure it out.” He started going on and on about how much he hated Rosie O’Donnell, which seemed like such an insane tangent. Like, let’s get back to me getting on the show. I later found out he had offered her a huge amount of money to compete on Celebrity Apprentice and she turned him down.
When the food came, I made him cut my steak. Not because I am a kid, but because I just have a thing about meat on the bone. He thought it was funny and went out of his way to apologize for not knowing. Near the end of dinner, he checked the time and hurried over to the couch.
“It’s Shark Week,” he said. He turned on the Discovery Channel and stretched his arm on the edge of the couch. “Come here, honey bunch,” he said. I inwardly groaned, but sure, let’s cuddle and talk about me getting on your show. I sat under the crook of his arm as he became entranced by the documentary Ocean of Fear: The Worst Shark Attack Ever.
“Have you heard about this?” he said. “It’s horrible. Horrible.”
I hadn’t, not being quite as up on sharks as I would learn he was. It’s the incredibly dark and tragic reenactment of the aftermath of the World War II ship Indianapolis sinking in July 1945. They were adrift in shark-infested waters, and the sharks were swarming because of the blood in the water from the dead and injured. Most of the sailors didn’t die in the actual sinking, but then the sharks just picked them off. Six hundred people.
So, I was sitting in this beautiful bungalow, and I was watching this crazy documentary filmed with real sharks tearing at bodies. And to say this guy was riveted is an understatement. I tried bringing up the Apprentice thing between shark bites, but he kept putting me off. “Disgusting creatures,” he said. “Disgusting.”
Then, to make it crazier, Hillary Clinton called. I could hear her voice through the receiver, and that accent saying “Donald.”
“Hello, Hillary,” he said, briefly distracted from the sharks. He kept the movie going but started pacing around the room.
She was up against Barack Obama seeking the Democratic nomination, and he had a whole conversation about the race, repeatedly mentioning “our plan.” They also discussed a family trip they wanted to take together—something involving a ski area. Who knows if Hillary was just humoring him.
Even while he was on the phone with Hillary, his attention kept going back to the sharks. At one point he covered the phone to talk to me.
“I hate sharks,” he said. “I’ll donate to just about anything, but the only shark charity I would donate to is one that promised to kill all the sharks.”
I nodded, but thought, Well, that’s stupid, because they are part of the food chain. Obviously, they serve a purpose.
When he hung up, he was effusive about Hillary. “I love her,” he said. “She is so smart.” This would be the fourth time he had donated money to her political career. Trump told me he and Hillary were great friends and that they had gone to the weddings of each other’s children. Not quite true. The Clintons attended his wedding to Melania, but maybe he didn’t want to bring her up.
“A lot of people say I should run for president someday,” he said in passing, as he made his way to the couch. “They want me to run because I can afford it. Who would want to? This is way more fun.”
Finally, after two hours of carnage, the sharks were done eating. And Donald was ready to make his move. He turned to look at my face appraisingly.
“What?” I said.