The Vegas Diaries: Romance, Rolling the Dice, and the Road to Reinvention (23 page)

“I know,” I croaked, my voice barely audible as I wiped the tears from my face. “I’m sorry.”

As he got up off the bed to get dressed, I felt heartbroken, yet oddly detached at the same time, as if I was watching someone else’s life happen. Was I really just letting this relationship with this amazing guy end without giving him the explanation he was owed? Was I really letting this perfect creature walk out the door and out of my life after every asshole guy I’d already survived? Why was I so heinously self-
sabotaging
?

Looking back on this, I’m not sure I had the self-esteem to let myself be loved the right way. And simply by failing to communicate, after years of dating douche bags, I became the douche bag.

“It’s no use screaming at a time like this. Nobody will hear you.”

—
The Wizard of Oz
(1939)

I
ran my fingers through my hair and rearranged the off-the-shoulder neckline of my oversize cashmere sweater as I approached the giant slatted-wood double doors. It felt more intimidating than inviting—an odd choice for a restaurant.

As usual, Eric had popped up on my BlackBerry that week to rib me about the latest episode of
Holly’s World
before asking me for a dinner date. He knew that Mark and I had called it quits, or at least I assumed he did. Gossip travels at light speed in Vegas. It had been a few weeks since Mark had caught a plane home and I was finally ready and free to accept Eric’s offer.

Guy Savoy was one of the most exclusive restaurants on the Strip. In recent years, Las Vegas had become a hotbed for foodies and now had offerings from some of the world’s most esteemed chefs. I was counting the days until my Paris trip with Claire, but in the meantime, this French cuisine was a tantalizing appetizer.

A statuesque maître d’ guided me to “table number three.” We strolled
through an impeccably chic dining room, with high ceilings and a wall of windows with a glittering view of the Strip’s lights. It was modern but somehow warm, with rich wood panels and bright artwork on the walls. Eric stood up to greet me, radiating charm and chivalry and offering me a slight kiss on the cheek.

He waited for me to sit as the maître d’ pushed in a sleek dark brown chair behind me. As if out of thin air, a server in a gray suit appeared with a small stool on which to place my tiny black clutch.

“Champagne?” Eric asked with a sly smile as he reached for the bottle of Cristal that had been chilling next to us.

“Sure,” I murmured before adding, “but just one.” My
Peepshow
choreography was ingrained in my muscle memory at this point, but I never wanted to give anything less than my full attention to the performance.

As he filled our glasses, politely and discreetly waving off the server, who was attempting to take over, my gaze drifted from the golden bubbles to the top two buttons of his white shirt, which were open and allowed the collar to frame his jaw. His thick dark hair was perfectly in place and he had not an hour’s worth of stubble on his smooth skin.

“Cheers,” he said, bringing his glass to mine. “To the first of many evenings to come.”

I clinked his glass, our eyes locking as we took sips of the champagne.

“I already ordered us the Prestige,” he stated. “You will love it.” I nodded, suddenly feeling a bit like a fish out of water. Prestige was the restaurant’s ten-course tasting menu. Normally I wouldn’t have selected such a lavish dinner before heading onstage, but I figured,
What the hell
. I wasn’t going to decline when being offered the royal treatment.

I felt like Katniss Everdeen arriving by speed train to the Capitol, quietly taking in the absurd decadence around me. Each course appeared before us looking more extravagant and otherworldly than the last. From the silky artichoke and black truffle soup with mushroom toasted brioche and French burger canapé, to a marinated lobster salad, green apple sorbet palate cleanser, and an artfully crafted strawberry rhubarb gelato
with basil granité, the meal was simply exquisite—and superseded only by the company with which I shared it. Truth be told, we didn’t say much over dinner, as we were too busy raving about each dish. Even the bread cart was a masterpiece, sprouting up like a wild garden of golden baked treats.

Throughout dinner, Eric’s BlackBerry stayed dutifully in his pocket. At least that’s where I assume it was, because I never saw it once. In turn, my phones stayed inside my clutch the entire meal (something they hadn’t done in quite some time).

Why had I been so hesitant to go out with him?
I wondered. He defied my expectations. With his devastating good looks, impeccable style, and success, he was the type of man most women would want to be with. After my string of less-than-typical boyfriends, there was something exciting about being with Eric, someone it seemed everyone else wanted, the proverbial “catch,” if you will.

I was having such a good time that I almost didn’t want to leave to do my show.

“I hate to be rude, but I really have to head over to start getting ready,” I told Eric.

“Absolutely,” he said, placing his linen napkin on the table and standing up. “Let me walk you to your car.”

We walked out of the tower toward the south entrance of Caesars. Someone must have alerted valet, because my car was already waiting for me. Eric walked me to the driver’s-side door.

“Thank you for dinner,” I said as he opened my door for me.

Without saying a word, he leaned in and kissed me.

“I’ll see you soon,” he said with one of his seductive smiles. He held open the door, and I slid, without saying a word, into the driver’s seat . . . and cruised the one long Strip block south toward Planet Hollywood. On my way up to the theater, I checked the phone that had been cooped up for hours in my purse and found a new text from Eric.

“When can we go on another date?” it read. I had to admit, I was flat
tered by the persistence. I decided to wait until after the show to answer him, and while I was waiting, Nancy texted me telling me she would be bringing a certain Eric J. Parkington to see my performance tomorrow.
Okay, then
, I thought with a smile on my face.

The next day, I decided to take a few extra minutes getting ready at home before I left for work. I leisurely sat down at my vanity and began applying my makeup. It was a big night for me. Not because Eric was coming to see the show, but because it was the first night I would be performing my latest number. I had taken over the role of Goldilocks in addition to the part I already occupied. What was challenging about this role was it required singing. I am not a gifted singer by any means; in fact, I have to work hard and rehearse for months just to be able to put one song over. I could have been nervous to have Eric there on my first night, but oddly enough, I wasn’t. I was confident in his feelings toward me. And you know what? I actually identified with my job so much, it eclipsed what a guy might happen to think about my performance.

As I dusted powder over my foundation to keep it in place, Napoleon started barking like crazy.
What’s that all about?
I wondered while I reached over to grab a lip liner. Suddenly, I heard an urgent pounding at my front door.

That’s weird,
I thought. I paused, torn between running downstairs to answer the door and acting like I wasn’t home. On one hand, the urgency called, but on the other, the forcefulness of the knock alarmed me. I glanced at my phone quickly to see if anyone had texted me saying they were at the door. No one had. Before I even set my phone down, there were more knocks at the door, harder this time. It was as if someone very large, very strong, or very angry (perhaps all three!) were determined to knock down the door.

“Madison!” a male voice yelled. “We know you’re in there! Your car’s out front!”

I didn’t recognize the voice. I grabbed my phone, in case I needed to
call the police. I didn’t dial right away because there was a part of me that still wondered if it could be someone I knew, or a neighbor who needed help. Slowly, I tiptoed downstairs to assess the situation. I crept through my entryway, approaching the peephole I had recently installed for just these sorts of occasions. Knocks on my door weren’t uncommon. Somehow, my home address seemed to have become public knowledge. Not only did I receive regular fan mail and packages at my home address, but visitors would drop by consistently, usually friendly neighborhood kids wanting an autograph.

Those deliberate visits were some of the only times I ever saw anyone from the neighborhood. Due to the extreme nature of the Vegas weather, I rarely spotted anyone outside. I had met very few of the other residents. Usually, the community resembled the set of a Western town in an old movie, just before a shoot-out. The streets were almost always empty, waiting for the cliché tumbleweed to roll on through, emphasizing the loneliness of the setting.

“Answer the door!” another adult male voice yelled.

I cautiously peered out my peephole and saw two ordinary-looking men, both wearing baseball caps. I had never seen them before in my life.

“We know you’re in there!” one of them yelled gruffly, knocking again. The knocks were so forceful, the pictures in my entry hall rattled against the wall.

Irrationally afraid that they could somehow see me through the door, I tiptoed around the corner into my family room and crouched on the floor, waiting for them to leave.

If they knock one more time, I’m going to call the police,
I told myself. Suddenly, I regretted my decision to buy a house. Living in the hotel felt so much safer. As my heart raced, a million thoughts ran through my head.
Why did these men sound so hostile? Were they here to hurt me? What could this be about? Why did I have to be alone in the house right now?

Suddenly, Napoleon grew quiet.

After what seemed like five long, slow minutes of sitting in silence, I heard a car start and drive off. I slowly approached the door again, looked out, and didn’t see anyone.

Thank God they left,
I thought. I decided to leave while the coast was clear. I quickly ran upstairs to grab my bag, raced back to the door, opened it, and looked around to make sure the uninvited visitors were nowhere to be found. I sprinted the few steps to my car and locked the doors the second I was inside. I drove off to work, eager to get back into a more populated area where I felt safe.

Since I arrived backstage early, with my makeup already done, I had some time to kill. I decided to check my Twitter mentions while I waited for the rest of the cast and crew to trickle in. Among the mentions were a few from an (judging by his profile picture) average-looking young man in a baseball cap.

Read in sequence, his tweets mentioning me chronicled his afternoon adventure, first with him declaring he was going to my house to see if I would buy a newspaper from him.
He looks too old to be selling newspapers, but okay.

The next tweet was a victorious exclamation of how he and his buddy had so easily followed a resident into my gated community.

The few after that were more of the hater variety, calling me disparaging names for not answering my door.

Why did he think it was okay to do that?
I wondered. I took a screenshot of the tweets and sent them to my neighborhood’s security staff. I was assured they would keep an eye out for him and not let him in if he approached the front, manned guard gate, but, unfortunately, if he were to tailgate in behind a resident through the unmanned side gate, there wasn’t much they could do about it.

Lot of good that does me,
I thought grumpily, though I was grateful that this guy had thought his escapades worth tweeting about. How else would I have ever found out who he was?

After venting to a few people about it, I decided to put it out of my
head and start warming up my voice. In fact, I was so nervous I never stopped warming up except when I was onstage. I was in my own little bubble, singing the same song over and over again in between scenes. When it was finally time to do the new bit, it went by in a blur.

As I wrapped up the number, crossed my glittering gold Louboutins, and waved at the audience, I spotted Eric and Nancy in their seats. His gleaming white smile seemed to light up the theater as he applauded enthusiastically. He seemed to have really enjoyed it! A feeling of accomplishment swelled up in my chest. Just when I thought I didn’t care about Eric’s opinion, I practically started glowing.

When the cast and I came out in white feathers and rhinestones for the finale, Eric was one of the first to rise up and lead the standing ovation. I couldn’t believe how supportive he was! I suppose, because he was the alpha type who always liked to appear in control, I had expected him to be more macho, more dismissive of what I had going on in my life. Happily, that didn’t seem to be the case.

After the crowd had let out, I was walked to my meet-and-greet and ran into Eric and Nancy in the corridor. Eric surprised me with a bouquet of red roses. He went on and on about how much he liked the show and how he couldn’t wait until we saw each other again. Needless to say, I was on the same page.

Seeing Eric after my meet-and-greet would have to wait, though.

“Holly, there are two policemen here who have a matter they need to discuss with you,” one of the security guards told me after I signed my last autograph and snapped my last photo of the night.

“What is it about?” I asked, my mind racing, trying to figure out what I had possibly done wrong.

“Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble,” he reassured me with a smile. “The theater has been getting some strange calls and they want to talk to you about it.”

“Okay,” I agreed, relieved that this didn’t seem serious.

I followed security back to my dressing room, where two police de
tectives were waiting. After introductions were made, they told me what had brought them there.