Kris Jenner . . . And All Things Kardashian Read Online Free PDF Page B

Debbie and I entertained at Anthony’s house on his tiny patio, taking turns hosting parties. Debbie would make the best tacos and peach margaritas and amazing dips and guacamole, and I would make steaks, Caesar salads, and baked potatoes. We invited our friends over, and I started inviting my dad. Dad got to know Anthony a bit, and healready knew Debbie. When I told him about Robert, he wanted to get to know him too.
    But it wasn’t meant to be.
    The night of our big, long-awaited first date, Robert picked me up and said, “Let’s go to the movies.” He had actually flown from Los Angeles to San Diego just for our date that night. After the movie, we ended up back at my house, which was also, of course, still Anthony’s house. Debbie was working that night, so Robert and I were alone, and somehow we made our way upstairs. We were messing around and heading in the direction of some major hanky-panky when we heard the front door open.
Anthony was home!
    “Kris!” I heard him calling from downstairs. I looked at Robert, and Robert looked at me.
Oh, shit
. We were so busted. We flew to our feet, but we were stuck upstairs in Anthony’s town house. And we are not talking about the Taj Mahal here—it wasn’t a big place.
How are we getting out of here?
I thought. We couldn’t jump out of a second-story window. I couldn’t hide Robert in the closet. Thank God we had our clothes on.
    “Let’s make a run for it!” I said, and we went running down the stairs, right past Anthony, and headed for the front door. It was stupid and immature of me to think we could get away with that.
    “What are
you
doing here?” Anthony yelled at Robert.
    I stopped, turned around, and I answered, “Oh, this is my friend Bob.”
    “What are you doing here, man?” Anthony repeated, and he and Robert got into it. Anthony started to grab Robert, and I immediately realized Robert was not a fighter. He was standing there in his designer jeans, Gucci loafers, and a gorgeous Gucci sweater with an anchor knitted into it. Anthony grabbed the sweater first.
    “Don’t touch the sweater!” Robert screamed. “It’s my brother’s!”He had stolen his brother’s brand-new Gucci sweater out of his closet to wear for our big first date, not thinking he might get attacked by a really pissed-off professional golfer while wearing it. Anthony didn’t give a damn. He grabbed the sweater and ripped it, stretching it out terribly and ruining it. Robert just broke away and went hauling down the street, running for his life.
    I ran past Anthony, grabbed my car keys from the front table, jumped in my little red Mazda, locked the doors, and took off after Robert. When I reached him, we were both shaking. “Get in the car! Get in the car!” I yelled. He hopped in, and we could see Anthony in the rearview mirror, chasing us down the street.
    “I am never coming back here again,” Robert said.
    “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I said. I was so upset. I thought he would never speak to me again. I had told him that Anthony and I weren’t getting along, but I never meant to put him in such a situation.
    “Where do you want to go?” I asked him.
    “Just take me to the airport,” Robert said. “When you get things straightened out with this guy, or decide what you want to do, we’ll talk. But that was scary.”
    I dropped him off and he flew back to L.A. I didn’t hear from him again for a really long time. He had probably never been in a fight in his life before that night.
    T hat same year, on Easter Sunday evening of 1975, I was standing in the kitchen at Anthony’s house when the phone rang. It was my paternal grandfather.
    “I have some really bad news,” he said. “Your dad’s been in a terrible accident, and he didn’t make it.”
    He told me the awful details: He was with his girlfriend in his vintage yellow Porsche—his pride and joy—and was run off theroad by a jackknifed semitruck in a remote, deserted area of Mexico. A group of