The Vegas Diaries: Romance, Rolling the Dice, and the Road to Reinvention (11 page)

“Are you kidding? I loved his latest special!” I exclaimed. “I caught it on TV the other day. It was so funny!”

“No way! I didn’t know you knew who he was!” Nancy practically shouted over the noisy casino. “He
loves
you!”

This comedian had a huge cult following. People really related to his raw but down-to-earth humor. He was tall, tan, and muscular, but for me, it was more about his sense of humor than his looks. His comedy seemed to hit that perfect balance of self-deprecation and confidence, all while he himself came across as totally approachable. He had likability down to a science.

“I didn’t even know you watched it,” Nancy repeated, smiling. “He’s friends with my boss. I met him earlier today. He is out here to take meetings for a potential stand-up residency. We were talking, and when I mentioned we were friends, he told me he wants to go out tonight and was hoping I would bring you along.”

“Totally!” I blurted out. It had been a while since I had been on a date,
and he seemed like the perfect guy to break the ice with because I felt like I already knew what he would be like based on what I had seen on TV. Now, this was incredibly stupid of me, because I of all people should have known how a TV show can misrepresent someone’s personality! It would appear I still had a lot to learn.

Nancy was waiting for me outside the theater after that night’s performance, looking amazing in one of her signature black-on-black ensembles, her shiny black bob swinging just under her chin. I called downstairs and arranged for a driver to meet us outside Planet Hollywood’s secret VIP entrance in one of the casino’s fleet of black SUVs.

When we arrived at the Wynn, one of the nightclub’s managers met us at the South entrance. The manager, a slim, tan blond dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, whisked us through the entrance and ushered us past the long line snaking into Tryst. We were brought past the red tufted walls of the entryway and into the club as the room opened up to reveal a majestic ninety-foot-tall waterfall, lit in shades of red. We arrived at a booth, where Eric stood with the tall, gorgeous brunette girlfriend he was supposedly sick of. The comedian wove his way through the crowded area and sidled up next to me at the table.

“Doug,” he shouted in my ear with a goofy grin before jokingly pursing his lips like a duck and squinting his eyes, playing the part of the “ultra douche.” I immediately started laughing; it was an exaggerated but pretty spot-on impression of so many of the guys who tried so hard to be cool.

For the next few hours we attempted to have a conversation, yelling over the loud music. He was skilled at delivering a punch line (which I expected, of course). I was laughing nonstop and having a really great time. As the alcohol started to take its hold, he got a little more comfortable and pulled a coin out of his pocket.

“Heads, we’re making out tonight,” he said through a half-sloshed smile that I registered as mildly charming, only because I had consumed a few glasses of champagne myself. “Tails, we’re not.”

I laughed and raised my eyebrows as if to feign shock at his presumption. I couldn’t decide if the line was so horrible it made me not want to make out with him or if I should have a sense of humor about it. Hey, at least it was something I hadn’t heard before.

Lady Luck saved him the embarrassment when the coin landed squarely on tails. I shrugged my shoulders as if to say: Oh well, better luck next time.

Eager to put his luxurious accommodations to good use, he invited us all back to his villa at the MGM Grand’s Mansion for an after party. I was digging in my purse to grab some cash to tip our server when he reached over and blocked me from paying.

I looked at him, expecting a punch line to drop—he had to be joking around, right? But he said nothing at first, just looked back at me with a furrowed brow, as if I had seriously insulted him.

“What?” I asked, genuinely confused.

“The
man
should always pay,” he demanded, shooting me a dirty look.

“Well, I can handle myself,” I snapped back haughtily. I was finally at a place in my life where I was independent, and being able to pay my own way was a serious source of pride for me. I couldn’t imagine why he was being so rude about this, but I decided it wasn’t worth getting in a pissing contest with him and let the situation dissolve. Regardless, his behavior was a pretty decisive strike against him.

The group of us walked out together and piled into cars to make our way over to the after party. Four of us crammed into the Rolls-Royce waiting for Doug and we were on our way, laughing and joking for the fifteen-minute ride. We pulled up to the hidden-from-view, invite-only, high-roller villas and stepped out into the glass-covered atrium of the Tuscan compound that is the MGM Mansion. It was a perfect 70-something degrees inside the courtyard, though I knew it was well over 95 in the rest of the city. A large fountain muffled the chatter of the rest of our group, who were taking it all in. The Mansion is pretty well
hidden—I think Doug and I were the only ones in the car who had seen it before. Even though I was familiar with it, I was still craning my neck to take in the luxe scenery along with everyone else.

Doug led us into his villa, down the hall toward his indoor pool. Nancy and I made ourselves at home, grabbing drinks and taking a seat on two of the rattan lounge chairs next to the pool as we waited for the other guests to arrive. First, everyone who had been at our table trickled in. A few minutes later, the rest of the local nightlife crowd started arriving. As soon as they did, we had some excellent people-watching. Some of the guests dove into the pool fully clothed, others without a stitch. There seemed to be no in between. When our host for the evening decided to get in on the action, he ended up throwing a woman in the pool and spraying everyone (including me) with champagne.

“Fuck!” I yelped, “that shit stings!” The champagne had hit me right in the eye, and it wasn’t mixing well with my contact lens.

“Oh, come on! Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a little champagne!” Doug teased, throwing his muscular arm over my shoulder.

“I’m going to excuse myself,” I said grumpily, pushing his arm off my shoulder. “I need to go find a restroom,” I said to Nancy, who then got up to follow me.

“Oh, come on!” Doug yelled after me. “Have a little fun!”

Nancy and I walked out of the pool chamber and down the hall, searching for the powder room.

“Looking for the restroom?” a smooth, deep voice asked us as we walked by the villa’s cavernous living room, still patting ourselves down with the towels we had grabbed on the way out.

I looked over to see Mr. Eric J. Parkington holding court with his model girlfriend and a handful of other people. He had an eyebrow raised at us and wore an amused smile on his face.

“I’ll show you where they are, since Nancy doesn’t seem to know where she’s going,” he said, winking at his new assistant as he got up
from the couch. I caught a flash of the deep blue silk that lined the inside of his suit jacket.
Who dresses like that?
I wondered. He always looked so flawless.

Eric lightly placed his hand on the back of my arm and pointed us toward the powder room by the entryway, his eyes sparkling and searching my face as if he were looking for an answer to a question he never asked.
Why can’t someone like this guy be single?
I wondered. I couldn’t help but compare him to Doug. Sure, they were both good-looking, successful, and roughly the same age, but their styles and manners couldn’t have been more different. While Doug was turning out to be a tool, Eric was soft-spoken, well-dressed, mannerly, and mysterious. It was the Jersey Shore versus James Bond . . . and Daniel Craig trumps The Situation every single time.

“He totally likes you,” Nancy said after he had walked out of earshot. “You should hit that.”

“No!” I laughed, wondering if Nancy had a secret crush on her boss. “He has a girlfriend. Besides, he’s not my type,” I protested.

Do I even have a type?
I asked myself. The handful of people I had dated in my life were all so different and would most definitely fall into their own categories. Eric was just so clean-cut and conventionally handsome, dashing in a Don Draper sort of way, and to say my past dating choices were usually a little more offbeat would be an understatement.

After Nancy and I had cleaned ourselves up, I said good night to Doug. He insisted we keep in touch, and we did, but very casually. I wasn’t particularly interested in him anymore, especially after my unexpected champagne shower. It’s funny, though, because you would think in order to find success as a comedian in Hollywood, you’d need to be pretty quick on the uptake . . . and Doug didn’t seem to be getting the hint.

A few weeks later, my friends and I were back at the Peppermill. Halfway through our first round of margaritas, Nancy’s phone buzzed and she almost giddily announced that Doug was back in town and
would be joining us. Hannah hit my leg underneath the table, and I gave her a “what the fuck” look while taking a sip from my drink. The evening was about to turn awkward.

A few minutes later, he arrived, inserting himself in our conversation.

“He really likes you!” Nancy whispered to me after Doug had joined in our conversation.

“I think he just likes my boobs,” I whispered back. He seemed to have a problem looking into my eyes when I spoke to him.

A friend of Doug’s was having a party at Lavo, and he suggested we check it out. Not ready for the night to end, we agreed to give it a chance.

Our group joined a table of some of the comedian’s friends, but my friends and I stuck close together. Hannah casually plucked an olive out of her martini glass, and with a glimmer in her eye and a wicked smile on her face, leaned in toward Josh and me: “So how’s Aubrey?”

“Fine, so far,” I replied. “I haven’t really got to know her yet, but she seems to know her part pretty well already.”

After the producers officially extended my
Peepshow
contract, it was decided that Aubrey O’Day and I would co-headline for the next three months. Aubrey would be taking over the part of Peep Diva, and I would keep my role as Bo Peep.

“Are you afraid she’ll steal the show from you?” Lindsay asked point-blank, locking her eyes on mine over her cocktail glass. As a dancer, she knew firsthand how much backstage drama could resemble something out of
Showgirls
.

“Not really,” I said, shrugging. A deal was currently being negotiated for me to sign back on as the solo headliner after Aubrey’s scheduled departure in December, but it was still confidential.

Anxiety drove much of my life, but when it came to my career I was actually in a place where I finally felt somewhat secure. I didn’t foresee any marble-throwing moments in Aubrey’s or my future.

Doug cut into our conversation, asking what we thought of his
friend’s latest business scheme. Before any of us could answer, the event’s photographer approached our table and motioned for Doug and me to lean in for a picture together. Right as I opened my mouth to politely and quietly say, “No, thanks,” Doug threw his hand up in the air and shook it vigorously as if to say “no fucking way.” He then shouted over the music, “No way, man, I can’t do that.”

His reaction made me feel surprisingly small. After the whole Russell fiasco, I was trying to avoid being linked to men in the press, but for some reason I couldn’t help but feel rejected, anyway. Doug was so rude to the photographer and quick to shoot him down in such an aggressively loud manner. Not only was his rudeness a turnoff, his behavior made me wonder if he was embarrassed to be seen with me. Couldn’t he have just said to me, “Do you mind if we skip it this time?” No, he had to overreact so dramatically in front of so many people—it was belittling, to say the least.

Always my knight in shining armor, Josh sensed my hurt and immediately reprimanded the comedian . . . who was becoming increasingly
less
funny.

“Excuse me, you don’t turn down a photo with a lady,” Josh said sternly, with his signature animated charm. He shot Doug a final withering look before going back to his conversation with Hannah.

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry!” Doug recoiled. He scrunched up his face apologetically. “Now I feel bad. Should I go get that photographer?”

“No, it’s okay,” I replied with a forced smile, and took a sip from my drink. “I didn’t want to take the picture either.”

It wasn’t whether we took the picture that bothered me. What had put me off was the way he turned down the photo. It was clear to me that this person who had seemed like the self-deprecating, funny “good guy” on TV was kind of the opposite in real life. Doug had offered to drive me back home, so I decided to use the drive as an opportunity to close up shop as gracefully as possible.

The drive back to Planet Hollywood took about thirty minutes, de
spite being only blocks away. As we inched our way down the Strip, he tried to make small talk. Behind the wheel of his neon-colored sports car, he roared the engine at each green light only to come to a screeching halt a block later at the next red light. Stop and go, stop and go. I couldn’t even focus on what he was saying. All I could think about was my stomach heaving up and down as we crawled through the neon jungle. I’d had a few too many margaritas that night.

When we finally turned on a cross-street, the road opened up and he accelerated at a blind rate. As he did this, I felt my stomach lurch up my throat with overwhelming force.

“Pull over!” I shouted, the words exploding out of my mouth before I quickly sealed my lips together to hold anything else from exiting.

His eyes nearly popped out of his head, but he swerved quickly to the side of the street. I pushed the door open and vomited. We sat there for a few minutes, my head in my hands as I made sure I was totally done.

We pulled into the hotel’s valet fifteen minutes later without exchanging another word. I gave some sort of halfhearted apology about not being able to hold my liquor and thanked him for the ride. We didn’t speak again for a long time. Honestly, I don’t think either of us was what the other expected. Having particular expectations about a person because of what you read in magazines or see on TV isn’t at all realistic. I knew that I wasn’t the person people had seen on TV over the past five years, so I wonder why I had expected this guy to be exactly who
he
seemed to be.