The Vegas Diaries: Romance, Rolling the Dice, and the Road to Reinvention (4 page)

I was facing all my fears at once. All the judgment that I had known was waiting for me the moment I left the mansion (which had, for so long, made me too scared to leave) was now hitting me square in the face. One moment I felt exhilarated by the opportunity to be on
DWTS
. In the next moment I was trembling; terrified that I’d make a fool of myself and prove the naysayers right.

It was a shitty feeling, knowing there were so many people out there waiting for the “spoiled gold digger” and “reality-show bimbo” to fall flat on her face in front of millions of viewers. I wasn’t any of those things; I knew it in my heart . . . but that wasn’t enough. I needed to prove it to everyone else, too. I know that caring what other people think about you is a huge waste of time, but I was so hurt by all the hate that using it as motivation to better myself was the only way I knew how to deal with it. I would be a success on my own terms. I would make something of myself despite the labels and criticisms. No one was going to tell me what I could and couldn’t do. No one else was going to decide for me.

When message boards would fill up with comments like “She can’t take these dance rehearsals because she never had to work a day in her life,” it only fueled me further. I didn’t grow up a spoiled rich girl. Far from it! Like many people, I juggled jobs to make ends meet throughout high school and college. Even after I had made the deal with the devil and moved into the Playboy mansion I hung on to my waitressing job until I was pressured to give it up. I only (barely) kept my sanity because I was able to carve out opportunities to keep busy, whether it was as one of the mansion’s tour guides or working my way up to the role of a
Playboy
magazine photo editor. These people spewing hurtful comments from
behind the safety of their computer screens had no idea what my life was like, but felt justified in judging it all the same.

Dancing with the Stars
was a chance to try and prove myself as something other than “Girlfriend Number 1.” It was sink or swim. For the first time in a long time, I felt in charge of my future—and I had great plans for my life.

I jumped out of my car, invigorated, temporarily forgetting how sore my muscles were. I took the elevator back to my condo to get myself into bed early. I had a full day of rehearsals and filming the next day—and I was ready to kick ass.

F
IRST
I
APPLIED THE
nude-colored flower-shaped “petal” pasties. Next I placed a stick-on bra cup over each breast. After these were secure, I stepped into the form-fitting two-piece costume covered with swinging beaded fringe and sparkling red Light Siam Swarovski crystals. The costume included a fully padded Victoria’s Secret bra sewn into it for an extra level of coverage. In less than sixty minutes I was going on live television in front of millions of viewers to be twirled, tossed, and tangled—and the network was not interested in the possibility of a nip slip. It was modesty by any means necessary, which was, for me, a refreshing change of pace.

I looked in the mirror to inspect my makeup. The show’s amazing hair and makeup team had transformed me, giving me red-lipped, Gwen Stefani–inspired makeup and a cascade of straightened platinum extensions. I was thrilled with my appearance! Two weeks prior, I had my first spin in the
Dancing
makeup chair and had been shocked by the amount of makeup they applied.
I look fifty!
I thought with alarm, scared shitless that I would look like a weathered, aged-before-my-time tart on my debut episode. However, I quickly learned that they knew exactly what they were doing. Under the lights, on TV, and in the context of “ballroom,” the look worked perfectly. By the time I was in my third week, I looked
forward to seeing what the
Dancing
glam team had in store for me. In addition to hair and makeup, contestants were also given a complimentary spray tan each week, then sponged down with additional pigment each day of taping. Finally, a shimmery gold bronzer would be applied after the second layer dried. It sounds excessive, but looked perfect on-camera.

I was in week three of the competition and Dmitry and I were tackling the samba (by far the most difficult dance I learned during my run). My final move of the number essentially had me doing a backbend over my partner’s bent leg. Every time we rehearsed the move, I would slam my rib cage into his thigh and it soon began to bruise. The more we rehearsed, the more painful the injury became. And since I didn’t have any time to recover, I was exacerbating the injury daily. By now it actually hurt to breathe! There was no time to feel sorry for myself, though. I had dreamed of competing on this show for years, and damn it, I was going to enjoy it!

The evening of the competition, Dmitry and I joined the rest of the contestants in a room behind the stage. I found an empty corner where I could stretch and start warming up. The camaraderie among the dancers and contestants was really something special. Everyone was friendly and supportive of one another. There was no snobbery or meanness.

“Hey, Holly, do you have a Twitter account?” one of the publicists from the show asked as I leaned down, folding myself on top of my legs.

“No, I don’t,” I answered. “That’s the thing that Ashton Kutcher and Demi Moore are doing, right?” I asked, remembering I read a blurb about it in
People
magazine.

“Yeah, everyone’s doing it now,” the perky PR lady told me, with a sense of forced urgency. “We’re asking all the contestants to make an account so they can tweet about the show!”

Twitter had only just become a thing in popular culture. Celebrities were starting to create accounts as a means of connecting with fans and friends. When it first appeared, hashtags weren’t hyperlinked,
tweet
wasn’t a verb, and no one I knew personally used it.

I agreed to set up an account, posted my first tweet, and then forgot all about it.

I’ll never use that again,
I thought. How wrong I was!

Just as I put my phone back in my purse, it was our turn to step out under the lights, cameras, and the gaze of the studio audience. Dmitry and I danced our samba, which went by in a fast-paced blur. We stepped back into the holding room after pausing in front of the judges to hear their feedback, feeling exhilarated. All the other contestants were incredibly encouraging, applauding and telling us what a great job we did, even though I knew my technique was sorely lacking (our mediocre scores told me that the judges agreed).

Heading home that night, I was acutely aware that my fate on the show was in limbo. The next day would be that week’s elimination episode, and I was frightened that I would be the one to get axed. I went straight to bed, trying to put the fear and anxiety out of my mind.

I hoped for the best, but prepared myself for the worst. During the elimination episode, the contestants and dancers lined up on the ballroom floor. One by one, each couple was declared “safe” and the remaining pool quickly got smaller. I held my breath during each dramatic pause, waiting to hear the outcome. The only thing I could liken it to was being picked last in gym class—but with the entire country watching! From the beginning I was well aware that the odds were never in my favor, but I still hoped to last as long as I could. Each week on
Dancing
brought with it a ton of press attention. The mirror-ball trophy was never going to be mine, I knew that going in. I even expected to be eliminated early . . . but not this early! My goal was to make it at least a third of the way through the competition, which I was so close to doing. I promised myself that if I got just one more week on the show I would make it count.

The elimination came down to two couples: Dmitry and me and Denise Richards and Maksim Chmerkovskiy. The lights turned red and the background music changed to the sound of a loud-thumping heart. No pressure!

I looked down at the floor, anxiety washing over me like a tidal wave, waiting to hear that I was going home.

“Holly and Dmitry . . . you are safe!”

I looked up and let out a huge sigh of relief. I gave Dmitry a big hug; I could tell he was relieved, too. Before I started celebrating, I quickly reminded myself that my safety meant another person’s departure. Denise had to be bummed, and I didn’t want to rub it in her face, so I kept my expression in check. I turned to Denise and hugged her as well. It couldn’t be easy. I know I wasn’t looking forward to my turn being eliminated! But I wasn’t focusing on that now. I had been given another chance . . . and that’s what I needed to concentrate on.

“You looked like you
wanted
to be sent home,” my publicist insisted. The show had wrapped, and we decided to grab a drink at a nearby Italian restaurant.

“
Of course
I didn’t want to be sent home!” I assured him. “I just didn’t want to look like I was gloating.”

“I’m not sure that’s how it’s going to look to the viewers,” he quipped, eyebrow raised.

Well, shit,
I thought. When it came to most forms of communication, my radar was almost always off. Even my facial expressions communicated the wrong thing. What I assumed was a gracious reaction to my fellow contestant being eliminated probably read more like me not wanting to continue on for another week. For as long as I can remember, I’ve always been awkward in social situations. Some people are blessed with the ability to navigate these scenarios with ease; I am not one of those people. It was even more reason to get back to rehearsals and work my ass off. Working hard was the best way to show how grateful I was.

“I need to book my next job before
Dancing
is over,” I told my publicist. “I’m not going to last much longer, and I need to capitalize off of this publicity while I can.” Even with the rigorous rehearsal schedule, I still managed to find time for meetings and auditions. When
DWTS
came to an end—and I never knew which week would be my last—I had to
be prepared, racing against the clock to line up my next act. The show provided a much-needed boost to my public profile, while also allowing audiences to see me in a different light. I needed to maximize the momentum. In addition to talking with a few networks about the possibility of my own TV show, I was being considered to headline a major Las Vegas burlesque revue—a dream come true! In fact, this one (called
Peepshow
) was a larger, bigger budget production than
Crazy Horse Paris
and was offering a three-month contract as opposed to a guest appearance that would last just a few weeks. Apparently my run on
DWTS
had inspired this new show’s producers to reach out. I dove headfirst into preparing for my audition and figured that if it didn’t work out, I would then reach out to
Crazy Horse
. I was careful not to count my chickens before they hatched, as according to industry gossip, a few higher profile names were being considered for this particular project.

Surely they’ll want Brooke Burke,
I thought.
Everyone loves her
. When I heard Lindsay Lohan was in the running, I was convinced I didn’t stand a chance. I couldn’t imagine a star with the potential to garner more publicity than Lindsay at that time.

Callbacks for
Peepshow
had me traveling back and forth between Las Vegas and L.A. fairly regularly.
Dancing
was even supportive enough to fly Dmitry and a camera crew out to the desert to allow me to do my rehearsals there before my meetings. During one such trip, I had a hosting engagement scheduled at Privé nightclub. Upon my arrival, the nightclub assigned me a VIP host, a person responsible for making sure everything went smoothly and to take care of anything I might need. Nancy, an energetic twentysomething with a raspy voice and sparkling brown eyes, greeted me at the private Planet Hollywood hotel entrance with a bellhop and keys to my suite.

“Welcome to Vegas!” she beamed. She was tall and thin, with an olive complexion and vivacity to spare. “I’m Nancy.”

Nancy wore her hair in a shiny black bob that fringed under her chin. Smoky eyeliner accentuated her almond eyes, and two or three leather
bracelets wound up around her wrist to where they met the pushed-up sleeve of a worn motorcycle jacket that was cropped short enough to show off her tiny waist. I thought she was really pretty and had a sexy, Joan Jett vibe about her.

“We’re so happy to have you here! How was your flight? Any issues? And the car service? Did everything work out for you? Oh, please, let me . . .” She stuck her phone in her back pocket and lunged toward my suitcase as I tried to collapse the handle down.

“Oh, thanks!” I said as she handed it off to the luggage attendant.

“You like champagne?” she asked. “Of course you do! Who doesn’t like champagne? Let’s go get some good stuff. My treat.”

As a VIP host, Nancy was responsible for keeping me occupied, happy, and entertained. It was the kind of “only in Vegas” career that cropped up to fulfill a need in the hospitality market. Las Vegas nightclubs were cash cows. Over the years, the savviest owners came up with the perfect recipe for maintaining high traffic and relevancy in this tourist-driven desert town: one part celebrity and two parts press, with a dash of sex and a twist of exclusivity. Owners began offering bigger and bigger paydays for celebrities to “host” events at their nightclubs, which drew huge crowds for that specific evening (with high cover charges and even higher bottle-service minimums) and also generated a good amount of media attention. When tourists flocked to Las Vegas for its emerging nightlife scene, they wanted to party at the same places where people like Christina
Aguilera
and Usher hosted fabulous parties. As these sorts of events became more and more frequent, people recognized that wrangling, managing, and placating some of these celebrities, as well as the big-spending VIPs, was a job in and of itself. Hence Nancy. Her job was to make me feel like I was the queen of Las Vegas for the short duration of my stay there. Anything I could possibly want was only a phone call away, and everything I would need was already accounted for. Nancy’s guests never arrived at a restaurant before their table was ready, and they had only the best items on the menu; they never waited for a town
car, constantly had a fresh cocktail in hand, and always attended the best parties, seated at the best table. How could I argue with that? So when Nancy asked if I wanted to join her for a show that night before dinner, I accepted immediately. Even though I had been planning on taking a nap in my suite, Nancy’s energy gave me a second wind.