The Vegas Diaries: Romance, Rolling the Dice, and the Road to Reinvention (8 page)

And since at the end of the day it was Hef’s party, I went over to say a brief hello and thank-you, making a point to acknowledge his three girlfriends. They seemed uncomfortable and distracted. Even the Shannon twins, who were usually so friendly, seemed too exhausted to muster more than halfhearted smiles.
I certainly don’t miss that tension,
I thought.

Being thrust back into this scene made my skin crawl. Angel and I wasted no time getting out of there. After my driver dropped Angel off at her home, I was ready to head back to my cozy bed and room service when I felt my phone vibrate.

The name
Rusty Rockets
popped up on my BlackBerry Messenger.

That’s random,
I thought. Rusty Rockets was Russell Brand’s nick
name on BBM. The English comedian and I had been “introduced” by a mutual acquaintance weeks earlier. This introduction culminated in us adding each other on BBM, but we hadn’t actually messaged each other until this moment.

“He’s so
funny
,” she had assured me. “You guys would be great together!”

I wasn’t really eager to be “together” with anyone, but he came with a glowing reference from a trusted source, so I was a bit intrigued and figured what’s the harm in simply exchanging numbers?

He invited me to stop by Tao and join him and a group of people for dinner. I was hesitant. On one hand, I had sworn off romance and was still a bit brokenhearted, so I wasn’t really in the mood to meet a guy, even casually. On the other hand, wasn’t the best (or at least the most typical) advice for a broken heart to get out, meet new people, have fun, and forget about it?
Maybe that’s just what I needed to do
.

“Sure, I’ll meet you there,” I responded.

Large golden rose-petal-filled tubs lined Tao’s entryway, complete with nearly nude bathing beauties lounging inside. I stepped into the cavernous, noisy, and dimly lit restaurant, and after a quick look around, I saw a boisterous giant table smack in the center of the room. That had to be his. Russell was in town filming a movie,
Get Him to the Greek
, and I recognized some of the cast seated at the table. The self-confidence I found on that red carpet less than a few hours earlier had quickly vanished; I was way too intimidated to walk up to that table. I leaned against a column, put my head down, and sent him a message that I was there. From the corner of my eye, I saw him look at his phone and crane his neck toward where I was standing. He pushed back his chair and quickly walked over toward me.

“Hello, there!” he said, bringing me toward him for a hug. He led me to the table, offered the rest of the group a blanket introduction, and sat me in a chair between him and Cassie, the R&B singer, who was sitting next to her then-beau, Diddy. I had to admit that as I looked down the
table and recognized some of the other actors, I was kind of blown away. This was as star-studded a crowd as I had ever dined with.

Russell was kind and seemed reasonably down-to-earth. We made small talk about how he was enjoying Vegas and the good times he was having on the set of the film. He was boyishly enthusiastic and witty. My friend had been right: he was funny and easy to talk to. I was definitely happy I decided to go.

He told me that I hadn’t been what he expected at all and that when he had first seen me standing there, he’d done a double take. He said I seemed more ladylike than he had imagined, more shy and demure.

“Thanks,” I said, trying to keep my smile from breaking out into a huge cheesy grin. Incidentally, that was
just
the kind of thing I liked (and needed) to hear. I was tired of my public image. I felt like everyone assumed I was a cunning, oversexed hot mess, based on what they saw on TV. It didn’t matter that I had said only a handful of things to Russell so far, and that he barely knew me. I
needed
to believe that I wasn’t crazy and that someone else could see me for who I felt I really was.

“You know, this isn’t really me,” he said after we finished eating, leaning back in his chair and gesturing around the trendy night spot.

“Me either,” I agreed, pleasantly surprised by his admission. I loved Tao, but I did loathe when restaurants got so loud that you could barely hear the person sitting next to you, let alone the person across the table.

He leaned in closer as if he were about to tell me a secret, “I’d much rather just be in bed watching a movie and eating something chocolaty, wouldn’t you?”

I couldn’t tell if he was being facetious or if he indeed wanted to jump in bed at that moment. He certainly gave off the vibe that anything could be a joke, but I couldn’t take the risk. I had been so scared off from guys that
anything
seemed like a dangerous proposition to me at the time. I was hyperaware that the last thing I needed was another notch on my belt, and I certainly wasn’t interested in a guy looking for a one-night pump and dump.

“I’m down to get out of here, but I’m going to have to call it a night,” I repeated, trying hard to keep a straight face. I felt as if I were a character in an after-school special, staunchly trying to avoid a possible sexual encounter. I finally added: “I’ve got to get back to my suite. My roommate is expecting me.”

“You have a roommate?” he asked quizzically, clearly not expecting my living situation to be so collegiate.

“Yeah,” I said, giving him a nervous smile. “Okay, well, I’m going to go . . .”

“Let’s share a ride,” he said, jumping out of his seat, and motioning toward the charismatic host who was handling this VIP table. “Since we’re staying at the same place.”

“Okay,” I said, grabbing my small black clutch as I stood to leave.

The cute, pullover-wearing host offered to escort us to the back exit. We wove through the hordes of people spilling over from the restaurant’s packed bar area. The host pushed open a secret door, hidden in plain sight from the rest of the diners, and we slipped out back and into the alley, where a black SUV was waiting for us.

I directed the driver to the VIP entrance of Planet Hollywood as Russell texted on his BlackBerry while our driver battled the traffic on the Strip. He had already lined up a backup plan for a night on the town, he explained, if I was certain I didn’t want to hang out.

“Thanks, but I can’t,” I insisted, as if my designer outfit was going to turn to rags at the stroke of midnight.

He looked at me and smiled as we pulled up to my destination. Before he could say anything, I jumped out of the car and bounded toward the door as quickly as my over-the-knee boots would carry me. If he meant to give me a good-night kiss or not, I would never know. I wasn’t even ready for something as benign as a peck on the lips at that point.

I wasn’t lying about the early rehearsals, so I headed up to my room to get some sleep. I smiled as I washed my face and changed into pajamas. In one short night, I had faced a few of my fears (old ones and new) and
had had a good time on top of it. I drifted off into a serene sleep, but that feeling of peace was short-lived.

Around eight
A.M.
my phone started going off.

“Fun night?” my publicist messaged me, along with a link to an online gossip column. I stiffened as I read the headline: “Holly Madison cozies up to Russell Brand in Vegas.”

“Uggghhhh,” I groaned as I did a Google search, scrolling through the articles and the stock photos of him and me that were pasted side by side. Each headline grew increasingly more salacious, with one insinuating that we were already a couple. Were they insane? We had only just met! The blurbs detailed our dinner together at Tao fairly accurately, but the other part of the circulating story told a completely fictionalized account of us going up to a suite in the Venetian together. According to the report, we were having sex so loudly the people in the room next to us had complained.

“That’s not reality, that’s a scene from
Forgetting Sarah Marshall
,” I grumbled at my phone, continuing to read one ridiculous article. Maybe I wasn’t the only one who had trouble separating myself in the public eye from my on-screen persona! I was simultaneously livid and mortified.

It was so frustrating; I felt like I was beating my head against a wall. It didn’t matter what I did, people were always going to see me as this bimbo willing to jump into bed with anyone. I was desperately trying to reinvent my image, but I was realizing more and more just what a challenge that was going to be. It seemed like the more I pushed the “single girl” card, the more anxious people were to see me slutting it up.

By lunchtime I’d received a few dozen calls and text messages from people eager for details on my alleged night with Russell. Even one of the cute male dancers from
Peepshow
whom I had been rehearsing with chimed in, congratulating me on finally getting laid. I made some vague comment on social media to dispute the false rumors, but was advised against addressing it directly, as that would just add more fuel to the fire.

I didn’t think Russell planted the rumor. He was a big enough celeb
rity that he didn’t need the extra press. Not to mention, tales of his sexual escapades abounded. I highly doubt that he had “plant stories about bagging women” on his agenda. The only thing I could imagine was that someone saw us at the restaurant and figured that when we left at the same time, we
must
have been headed back to screw. I felt confused and upset, but there wasn’t much I could do about it. I was never even going to know who planted that rumor.

I received a few messages from Russell that day, but I didn’t respond. I was too embarrassed by the entire situation, so I did the only thing I knew how to do and avoided talking about it altogether. After days of my silence he finally sent me a message saying that he hoped I knew he had nothing to do with the rumors. I believed him, but I still couldn’t bring myself to respond. When it came to men, I was scared to do anything at all. It was too dangerous to have anything to do with this one; if I should ever be seen with him again it would only encourage the rumors. I removed him from BlackBerry Messenger; I didn’t want to be tempted to text him and this way he couldn’t reach out to me anymore, either. (Clearly my communication skills needed a bit of work.)

I started to wonder what I could do to make people see that I wasn’t the woman the outside world made me out to be. I understood why they thought that way, because for years I’d allowed myself to be portrayed as that person. While I wasn’t her, I didn’t know how I could possibly prove that. I wasn’t looking for sympathy, just the benefit of the doubt. I didn’t know how to get out from under this reputation that preceded me. I couldn’t very well open up my bedroom door to the public, so I’d have to prove it some other way.

I wasn’t the girl next door anymore. I never really was.

I decided that for the next few years, at least, I would have to keep my personal life as far out of the public eye as possible. I had no idea what a challenge that would be.

Yet Dorothy felt a sort of joyous excitement in defying the storm, and while she held fast to the railing she peered through the gloom and thought she saw the dim form of a man clinging to a mast not far away from her.

—L. Frank Baum,
Ozma of Oz

G
etting up early for church wasn’t my typical Sunday routine.

A few days earlier, Angel invited me to go to church with her. I loved spending time with Angel and her family, so I gladly accepted. We invited a bunch of friends to meet us afterward at Simon, the popular brunch spot of the moment. She and I were seated in our booth and had a good amount of time to kill before the rest of our party wandered in.

“They’re cute, right?” I whispered to Angel. A few seats away, a group of ink-covered rocker boys who looked to be in their late twenties roared and laughed, as two of the members argued playfully over the retelling of a story. One of the guys, in a worn-out death-metal shirt and blue-streaked hair, began animatedly describing a run-in with a group of girls the night before.

“Totally,” she said, not so subtly craning her neck to get a better look. “Should we say something?”

“No!” I gasped, throwing my hands over my mouth. Angel, who was always brimming with confidence, started to rise from her seat with a big cheeky grin on her face. I leaned over the table and waved my hands, gesturing to her to get back into her seat.

I glanced over at the table carefully, and when I was sure they weren’t looking at us, decided to stare a little longer. Most of the guys were cute, but one in particular stood out, thanks to the tall Mohawk he sported.

“Hol, come on . . .” Angel encouraged in her cute, I-just-inhaled-helium voice. “That Mohawk guy is cute.” I knew she was trying to help and have fun, but she didn’t understand how I was feeling.

“Let’s just leave it alone, please,” I begged, under my breath, praying they hadn’t heard her.

“But why?” Her tone was genuine, and I realized she didn’t see what was so obvious to me. I didn’t want to have to say it out loud, but I didn’t seem to have a choice.

“Because they would never be into me,” I blurted out. I appreciated that she believed me to have more game than I actually did, but it was a blow to the ego to have to admit it in public.

Angel shot me a look, quick to let me know that my excuse carried no weight with her, but she knew me well enough to let the subject alone for now.

Perhaps if I were a “normal girl,” those are the sorts of guys I’d hang out with, but I wasn’t. I had only recently turned thirty, but having just come out of a world where any woman over twenty-eight was considered ancient, I felt like I might as well have been a hundred. Plus, my dating history was pretty much public record. Maybe they wouldn’t know at first glance, but everyone googles everyone. It was only a matter of time before they figured it out.

These guys would probably think I was gross,
I thought. Experience had led me to believe that guys couldn’t handle my past.

Luckily, our group started to filter in before Angel could ask me more about it.

“Sorry I’m late,” Hannah announced, collapsing into an empty seat and snatching my mimosa to take a swig. “Ooooh, those guys are cute,” she said, nodding toward the booth next to us. “That guy with the Mohawk looks so familiar, but I can’t place him,” she continued, tapping her nails against the table. After a few moments of unsuccessfully trying to place Mohawk man, she turned her attention back to us. “Anyway, I was held up this morning because I had to get an emergency manicure.”

She was baiting us. Hannah loved a game of cat and mouse—relishing a good chase—and gingerly picked up a menu, spreading her garishly manicured hand around its edge. Her nails were exceptionally long this time, with obtrusive rhinestones affixed to the red lacquer that seemed in contrast to her usually elevated taste. She waited for someone to ask the question we were all thinking: “Why?”

Hannah was still seeing the billionaire high roller, who had some interesting bedroom fetishes, so she was always good for some scandalous gossip.

“Well, that’s quite the manicure.” Josh laughed. Josh Strickland was my
Peepshow
costar and had quickly become one of my best friends. We had bonded over being new to the city, our performance schedule, and wanting to live life to the fullest.

“Brendan likes them,” Hannah said, flexing her wrist nonchalantly to take a look at her pristinely painted nails. “He asks me to tickle his balls with them and gets off on the rhinestones when I stick my fingers in his ass.”

She returned her gaze lazily to the menu—allowing us to fully absorb the punch line. Naturally, we dissolved into various degrees of hysterics. Angel nearly fell on the floor after Josh just about spat a mouth full of water across the table. Even Hannah couldn’t resist and joined our chorus of laughter. The idea of this buttoned-up businessman with Hannah’s fingers up his ass was just too much.

“It’s all right, he’s flying me somewhere special on his new jet next weekend,” Hannah said with a wink. She loved the combination of upscale mixed with dirty in the same way people like to mix “high” with “low” in their wardrobe. I think a part of her liked knowing people’s secrets, too.

“So, Holly, what about Kent?” Josh asked, a smile spreading across his handsome face. Earlier that week, I confided in Josh that I thought one of the dancers in our show, Kent, was cute.

“Josh!” I shouted, playfully tossing my napkin at him. I was embarrassed about my unrequited crush, although it’s not like anyone could blame me for having one. Kent was an Adonis: perfectly tanned; disarming smile; muscular but lean; messy dark hair; and a nice-guy personality shrouded in a bit of brooding mystery. He was also openly gay (a fact I let the table in on before the interrogation could commence).

With the cat out of the bag, word started making its way around backstage. I met Kent during my first week of
Peepshow
rehearsals, and I was immediately struck by his good looks. He could have been a model ripped straight off the pages of
GQ
and had a fun, offbeat sense of humor. After he stopped by my dressing room to introduce himself, a gleam in his eye, I commented to one of the dancers on how cute I thought he was.

“Good luck,” she scoffed, rolling her eyes and smiling. “He’s gay.”

“Are you sure?” I questioned, a little disappointed.

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “I’ve known him forever. He just got out of a serious relationship.”

For one of my solos, Kent was drafted to teach me the choreography. He was naturally talented, moving with fluidity and grace. It was the sort of skill you were born with, which made him and me an odd fit as teacher and student. He was supremely patient, but so naturally talented that he had trouble breaking down steps in a way that my novice feet could keep up with. Sure,
Dancing with the Stars
had trained me to be able to pick up routines quickly, but my technique was still far from that of a professional
dancer. Even though the rehearsals were long, I always looked forward to them.

There was something about Kent that I connected with. Maybe it was that he had a great sense of humor, or the fact that he seemed to be the human embodiment of this new show that I was so in love with . . . or maybe it was that he was kind and friendly and so entirely welcoming.

It was just the sort of thing I needed to distract myself from dealing with that empty pit inside my stomach. Even though a lot of great things were happening in my life, anxiety and self-doubt still lurked just underneath the surface. I was quickly learning that it isn’t so easy to shove your past under a rug. Even if it is behind you, it still has the power to haunt you. And if that wasn’t enough to keep me up at night, I was considered a “public figure,” with every aspect of my life up for debate, analysis, and criticism by thousands of people who had never met me. The Kent distraction was a Band-Aid on a bullet hole, but it was my bullet hole . . . so I could dress it however I wanted.

Even before my first performance,
Peepshow
was seeing a huge surge in advance ticket sales, and we began talking about extending my contract. The producers had originally intended to replace the actor in the role of Bo Peep with a fresh guest star every few months. However, after seeing how well advance ticket sales were doing, they were starting to rethink the plan. But if they kept me on, they had to figure out what to do with the performer they had lined up to replace me: Aubrey O’Day, a pop singer. Would I take three months off and return after Aubrey’s run, or would they keep me on and have us co-headline?

I didn’t just want to stay with
Peepshow
; I
needed
to stay with
Peepshow
. Not only did I believe in the show, but the pay was amazing, the cast and crew were a delight, and it was the perfect anchor for the four-year period of time I had given myself to come into my own in Las Vegas. The show was my family and my security in my hastily pieced together new life.

I knew that if I had a TV series in place, it would virtually guarantee me an extended run and also serve as a platform for whatever I decided to do next.

After countless meetings, it appeared that a few networks were interested, but no one had yet pulled the trigger. Having spent five seasons on a show, I thought I had a pretty good idea of what made for good reality TV and I knew the colorful cast of characters around me would certainly light up on screen. I was so enthusiastic about selling a series about a single girl making it on her own in Las Vegas, but inevitably got the same question from every network exec: “Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No, that’s kind of the whole point,” I said. “It’s about doing it on my own, but I’m open to the possibility of romance down the road.”

“Well, is there anyone you’re open to right now?” one particularly abrasive exec asked.

“Right now I have a crush on my costar,” I confessed. His eyes lit up, as if he were already crafting the story line in his head. “But he’s gay,” I added, making it clear that my little infatuation was going nowhere.

“You watch TV, right?” he asked, a hint of annoyance in his voice. I nodded. “Well, every reality show needs a relationship element, so I don’t think a series without a romantic interest would work.”

So far, my “Single and Fabulous” pitch was flopping. It was discouraging, to say the least. I felt like a show about a single woman doing it on her own sent a much better message for women than the message I had been a part of before. Now I had network executives making me feel like I wasn’t interesting enough—that a woman’s life in general wasn’t interesting enough—without a boyfriend. Even a publicist I interviewed suggested that it was imperative that I “stay relevant,” and the easiest way to do that was to start dating another celebrity. I would start dating when I was ready, but in the meantime . . . there was Kent.

When one of the
Peepshow
stagehands asked me if I would like to go
on a camping trip and then mentioned that Kent was going, I accepted immediately.

Of course Kent is outdoorsy,
I thought. He was basically a living Ken doll.

“Have you ever been canoeing before?” the stagehand asked me next.

“Um, like once or twice at Disneyland,” I admitted sheepishly. I grew up fishing with my dad in Alaska, but I had never paddled in a real canoe or kayak. One that wasn’t on the safe man-made Disneyfied Rivers of America anyway.

He let out a chuckle. “Well, we’re going two to a canoe, so you shouldn’t have any trouble. We’ll have a full day of activities planned. And be prepared: we’ll be canoeing almost all day long, down the Colorado River to Arizona, and then we’ll camp out overnight.”

“Great,” I exclaimed. “I’m in!”

The amount of camping gear I purchased for a twenty-four-hour getaway was slightly embarrassing. I had never been to the Bass Pro Shop before and felt like I needed everything they were selling. I was a bit terrified at the idea of canoeing but euphoric about going on a day trip with Kent. I picked out a camouflage bikini for the excursion. It was my signature blend of sexy and campy (no pun intended). As if my outfit wasn’t a total disaster already, I grabbed a pair of hot pink Crocs because I was told we’d be doing a little spelunking along the way and that a wet pair of Converse wouldn’t cut it.

Josh, Angel, Lindsay, and I woke up at around five in the morning to drive toward Boulder City, since we’d be launching off near the Hoover Dam. The giant dam, 726 feet high, is located roughly thirty miles southeast of downtown Las Vegas, in Black Canyon. The nearest town, Boulder City, was founded to provide housing for the workers hired to construct the dam.

As we drove, I pulled up some facts on the dam, paraphrasing them aloud for my fellow passengers: “It took ten thousand men to complete
the Hoover Dam, over a period of five years. It was actually completed a whole two years ahead of schedule! There was a grand total of one hundred and twelve deaths related to the Hoover Dam project, though, contrary to legend, experts say there aren’t any bodies buried in the concrete. Perhaps the creepiest story involves the first ever project-related death: while surveying the canyon on December 20, 1922, a man fell into the Colorado and drowned. Exactly thirteen years later to the day, that man’s son was the last person to die on the project when he fell from an intake tower.”