The Vegas Diaries: Romance, Rolling the Dice, and the Road to Reinvention (9 page)

“Maybe that’s not the best story to tell us right before we spend the night there,” Lindsay joked.

When we finally arrived at the legendary dam, I counted about fifteen of us, but I didn’t see Kent. People starting coupling off, two to a canoe, and I frantically began scanning the crowd, certain I must have missed him.

“You looking for Kent?” one of the stagehands shouted over the mess of people calling out to one another, trying to avoid tipping over before the journey even began. My crush had become something of a production-wide joke, so it was no surprise that the stagehand knew, too. “He bailed. Came down with something last night. Sorry.”

I was instantly deflated. Without Kent’s charm to motivate me down the river, I suddenly felt even more ill equipped to handle a canoe than before. I paused for a moment before sluggishly placing my items in my assigned canoe.

The trip went downhill from there. After being nailed by a long-range water rifle and trekking through a muddy, slippery hot spring cave along the way, I was quickly regretting my decision to come. Summers in Vegas can be relentless—and this particular day was forecasted to top out at 110 degrees. Our second stop was a pebble clearing along the side of the river. It looked like a set from
Land of the Lost
, but I was ready for some swimming and a midmorning snack. I needed to occupy my attention to avoid getting sad.
Why didn’t Kent text me that he was sick?
I wondered.

“So let’s start setting up the tents!” one of the other organizers exclaimed.

“This is where we are camping?” one of the dancers asked, reading all of our minds.

That was the whole thing?
I thought.
That’s it?
What the hell were we going to do until tomorrow morning? We were maybe two hours into our trip . . . and we were setting up shop already? I hadn’t even brought a book with me! I was convinced I’d be spending the whole day battling raging rapids, without a second of spare time!

All morning I watched as one of the cast and one of the crew, who were involved in a “showmance,” held hands and stole kisses when they thought no one was looking, laughing at private jokes only they understood.

I had to admit, I was a bit envious. They had each other to occupy their attention, and I had been hoping that Kent would be there to occupy mine. A small part of me hoped that Kent and I would be having a similar sort of adventure together. I knew we were never going to be involved romantically, but I still loved hanging out with him. Watching her giggle as he tenderly tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear drove home for me the fact that I needed to get my head out of the clouds. I wondered why it was that I felt like I had to constantly have visions of a particular man dancing around in my head. Was I so used to seeking male approval that it had become a habit? What about seeking my own approval?

“I don’t think I’m into this whole camping thing,” Angel whispered into my ear as she watched one of the crew members attempt to pitch a less-than-sturdy-looking tent.

“Me, either,” I agreed. “Should we canoe back?”

Angel got a text from Laura, with a picture of her baby boy cuddled next to a stuffed teddy bear—and I could feel how much she missed him. I, on the other hand, started rapidly texting Hannah to see what she was up to. My stomach started twisting and I nervously wondered what great party was happening tonight that I would be missing out on if I stayed
here.
Isn’t there a red-carpet event happening tonight?
I wondered, starting to panic just a bit that there was an opportunity to promote the show that I wasn’t capitalizing on.

When the head of our props department whizzed up on a speedboat to say hello, Angel and I took it as our cue to escape. She was having separation anxiety, missing Roman. I was just having . . . anxiety.

A funny thing had happened to me since I had seized control of my life. I became
addicted
to controlling it. Sure, my suite was still a mess half the time and I wasn’t very disciplined when it came to what I ate, but what I
really
needed to have control over was how I spent my time. If my hours weren’t set aside for work or getting precious sleep, I wanted to be having the Time of My Life, on
my
terms and my terms alone. After spending over seven years in all-consuming relationships, constantly making excuses for why I was doing things I really didn’t want to do, I realized that living someone else’s life was the only adult life I had ever known. When I finally seized my independence, I went in the complete opposite direction. If I ever found myself in a situation that wasn’t my ideal scenario, a crushing anxiety would sneak up on me, making my mind race and my heart beat faster.
Don’t you have something more productive you could be doing right now?
the little voice in my head would whisper.

That was the other part of the equation. Since I had spent so many years as someone else’s accessory, I had to work extra hard to build a life for myself now. I felt almost as if I had awakened from a seven-year coma and desperately craved making up that lost time—both career-wise and socially—on my own terms. Any time someone else tried to tell me what I should do, my instinct was to turn in the exact opposite direction.

My debut in
Peepshow
was rapidly approaching. In so many ways, the character I played, Bo Peep, eerily reflected my real life. The character didn’t say much (the show was a musical burlesque revue, so I had lines only in between numbers and during an audience participation bit in the middle of the show), but she was expected to look pretty. I had been terribly introverted my whole life and turned toward a highly sexualized look,
perhaps in a subconscious attempt to let my appearance do the talking for me. While it was attention and affection I wanted, the extreme nature of my look perhaps went above and beyond what I was going for, sending the wrong message.

The loose story line of
Peepshow
involves the main character being a busy career woman with no time for love. In the show, Bo Peep falls into a dream world, where more confident women, in the form of grown-up versions of nursery rhyme characters, demonstrate to Bo what it means to be a strong, self-assured woman, comfortable with her sexuality. In the show, Bo Peep finds her man only after she finds her confidence in herself. Though it wasn’t a goal I actually wrote down, confidence in myself was perhaps the thing I needed to achieve most during this period of my life.

My first official week starring in
Peepshow
happened to land in the middle of June, during Vegas’s busy summer season. There were no “friends and family” performances, so my first night onstage was for a paying audience. To say I was nervous was an understatement! I had a grand total of two live shows before journalists descended on my “press night,” where my stage presence would be reviewed and critiqued for the world. I wasn’t a talented dancer by any means, so I knew I was going to have to connect with the audience on another level, strictly with personality, enthusiasm, and charm. Luckily, in spite of the nerves that had my dancing feet practically shaking, I got through the show and had an amazing time doing it. As I stood at the end of the middle runway after the final number, covered in rhinestones and white feathers, I was handed bouquet after bouquet of red roses. The audience was on their feet in a standing ovation. I couldn’t believe it! I grinned at my costars on either side of me, my friend Josh and another Broadway singer, Shoshana Bean. I felt like a
Ziegfeld Follies
star from long ago.

My first few weeks in
Peepshow
went by in a joyous blur. I bonded with the cast, quickly growing attached to the group. It was easy to forget that most of them, including Kent, would be heading back to New York
in only a matter of months. Or maybe I was just in denial, because I wasn’t ready to lose this new, albeit makeshift, family. I always arrived backstage two hours before showtime to have a snack and start my hair and makeup (which I insisted on doing myself). The cast would constantly socialize during the day and backstage before the show, and usually hung out at a restaurant or nightclub afterward, too.

Sometimes we would attend one of the pool parties in town, but we quickly learned to save those outings for our days off. Being out in the stifling heat and blistering sun all day (particularly if you’ve had a cocktail) could easily wipe you out before a performance. July Fourth was always one of the biggest days for poolside celebrations, but since we had a show that night, we didn’t go out to celebrate in the typical Vegas fashion. Between performances, I was suffering from a bit of Fear of Missing Out Syndrome, due to opting out of the Independence Day festivities, when one of the dancers shouted, “The fireworks are starting!” A stampede of cast and crew made a mad dash to the back service entrance behind the stage that led out onto a large balcony with a view of the Strip.

“Don’t go back there barefoot!” the stage manager called after me. I grabbed my flesh-toned satin heels and placed them back on my feet. I pushed my way out the door just in time to see an enormous red burst light up the sky. I noticed Kent standing off to the side and squeezed my way through the crowd toward him. Napoleon, a little blond mutt Laura had helped me pick out from a pet adoption fair, bounded out behind me. He jumped on Kent, wagging his tail and barking. He loved Kent as much as I did. The display lasted just a few minutes, with a dramatic climax of giant red, white, and blue blooms exploding across the sky. Slowly people began to trickle back inside, but Kent waited alongside me, despite the heat, watching the smoke billow and curl.

“Are you excited to be going back?” I asked him, my eyes readjusting to the darkness. Along with most of the New York transplants, Kent would soon be heading home. They had fulfilled their Vegas contracts and would be replaced with a new cast of locals. I knew this was coming,
but that didn’t make it easier to see any of them go . . . especially Kent. Ever since the camping debacle, I hadn’t been as starry-eyed and dreamy when it came to him, but I still really enjoyed his company.

“Yeah,” he began, scratching Napoleon behind his ears.

“I wish you could stay!” I interrupted. “It won’t be the same without you.”

“I wish I could, too, but there aren’t the kinds of opportunities I’m looking for here,” he said. I knew that Broadway was his passion. He continued: “I only signed on for a few months, so now it’s time to find something else.” After a pause, he added, “It’s not the best place to meet guys, either.”

I agreed. I hadn’t been there very long, but I already knew how small a city Vegas could be. Plus, being a party city, the odds were already stacked against you. Most of the local guys I knew worked in nightlife, living like a bunch of perennial Peter Pans with their pick of the women circling through the revolving doors, so you could forget having an easy time finding anything serious.

“I’ll miss you,” I said. And I meant it. Despite the heat, I didn’t make a move toward the door. I wanted to enjoy my last few moments alone with Kent. He was moving on toward the life that was right for him and I was happy to have him as a friend, which we all know is better than a roll in the hay, anyway.

“I’ll miss you, too,” he said, leaning over to give me a hug. After he pulled away, we stood there for another minute, before he shot me that million-dollar smile. “Come on, doll, we got a show to do.”

I turned back around and did what I do best—buried myself in work. I was steady in my resolve that there wasn’t any time for romance in my life . . . or so I thought.

“But, I don’t understand,” said Dorothy, in bewilderment. “How was it that you appeared to me as a great Head?”

“That was one of my tricks,” answered Oz. “Step this way, please, and I will tell you all about it.”

—L. Frank Baum,
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz

I
’m going to give you one more chance, and then I’m going to have to kick you out of here,” warned a stern-faced woman with a name tag that read “Suzie.”

“Okay, sorry,” Nancy grumbled. The former nightclub host was celebrating her new job as an assistant to Eric J. Parkington, a handsome investment banker who split his time between New York and Las Vegas (the same one, incidentally, who had sent me a bottle of Dom at the Privé appearance). At the Peppermill (a Las Vegas landmark that’s equal parts coffee shop and seventies-style lounge), each table is topped with a small shaker of multicolored sugar crystals, intended for coffee, but which Nancy had decided to use as her own makeshift confetti. When a shower
of sugar landed in Hannah’s iced tea, the situation escalated into a full-on sucrose war.

“I’m on a diet, bitch!” Hannah joked as she grabbed the sugar from the next table and started dumping it down Nancy’s shirt. Flying sugar rainbows somehow didn’t seem out of place in this twenty-four-hour establishment. After all, we were sitting under mirrored ceilings in booths outlined in strips of neon, surrounded by synthetic cherry blossom trees. The loud peals of laughter coming from our table had attracted the attention of the entire diner, including Suzie, the manager on duty.

“You guys need to calm down,” she said firmly, “and enough with the sugar.”

She grabbed the shakers off the table and disappeared behind one of the many artificial trees that populated the restaurant’s interior.

Nancy wasn’t the only one sharing good news. I had been thrilled to learn that E! had finally decided to order a pilot for the Vegas-based reality show I wanted to do. Even though I had been told that television shows set in Sin City simply didn’t translate, it appeared that someone somehow had changed their mind.

“They’re going to send a production team out next month to film a pilot,” I told Hannah between bites of my salad. Nancy had gone to the restroom to try and get the sugar out of her bra, and I had been dying to tell Hannah, but didn’t want to overshadow Nancy’s news. “I have to start making decisions about who should be on it.”

I was testing the waters. Hannah was made for TV, but she never seemed interested in the spotlight—which is how I knew she was a real friend. At every press event or red-carpet club appearance, Hannah would sneak around the sea of cameras, dip into a bathroom, and meet us at our table a few minutes later. Unlike L.A., paparazzi weren’t lurking around every corner, so Hannah was easily able to fly under the radar.

“Yeah . . . decisions,” she yawned, with the sort of monotone inflection that said it all. A short pause hung in the air before I shot her a smile and turned back to my salad.

We appeared to have the conversation without having to say anything—my favorite part about any good friendship. Hannah had zero interest and I was totally okay with that. It almost made me like her more. But her good looks, outgoing nature, and willingness to discuss anything and everything, no matter how personal, would have been great for the show, so I had to at least feel her out.

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” She dangled her fork loosely in her hand and pointed it around the restaurant. “Lots of options around here.”

Nancy returned from the restroom, and as if on cue, Lindsay bounded into the neon-lit diner.

“Sorry I’m late,” she breathed, ducking under one of the ersatz cherry trees and collapsing onto the booth’s blue-and-purple-striped upholstery. “I just drove in from L.A.”

“Rough night last night?” I asked, laughing. Being a burlesque dancer, Lindsay prided herself in appearing “put together” at all times. She always had the most perfectly styled, retro outfits and impeccable hair and makeup. But at that particular moment, she looked totally
undone
. She appeared to be wearing last night’s makeup, which was so smeared I wondered if she had bothered to look in the mirror without her cat-eye sunglasses on.

“I mean, it was . . .” she started, but abruptly stopped when she spotted a waitress. “Hi, can I please have a mimosa? Light on the juice.”

“I guess that answers that,” Hannah scoffed.

“Remember that guy?” Lindsay prompted, looking back and forth between Hannah and me. “The actor from that show?”

When Lindsay had moved from Washington State a few years earlier, her first stop on the way to Vegas was L.A. During her time there, she booked a handful of music video gigs, during one of which she met an extremely popular TV actor who had become well known across the country for his work on a popular cable series, and almost equally as well known among the women in L.A. as a player and major asshole.

“Oh no,” I said, fearing what I already knew happened. “You didn’t?”

An attractive girl with a killer figure, Lindsay turned most heads when she walked into a room. So when she got to L.A., it was only a matter of time before she experienced the thrill of her “first celebrity.”

“I did,” she said meekly, scrunching her nose and slumping down in her chair.

“Was it at least good this time?” Hannah blurted out.

There is something about the idea of “celebrity” that causes logical, clearheaded people to become total lunatics. Maybe it’s because, next to the almighty dollar, fame is the prize most revered in our culture. And Lindsay fell hard: hook, line, and sinker. I couldn’t blame her. What young girl didn’t grow up daydreaming over the heartthrobs on the cover of
Tiger Beat
? Or have walls covered in pictures of Leonardo DiCaprio, or whomever the idol of the moment was?

So as if on command, Lindsay turned into putty when this actor expressed interest in her. After all, she was a mere mortal and he was a
celebrity
. As an adult, you think you’d be impervious to that kind of thing, but it’s surprising how easy it can be to swoon in the face of fame—even if he or she is far from your usual type. He and Lindsay hung out a few times and he wined and dined her, but it was abundantly clear that he wasn’t interested in anything serious (which she already knew, but everyone thinks,
What if I’m the one to break the spell?
). Which is why she’d occasionally fall back into his trap.

“Not really,” Lindsay admitted. “Honestly, though, I’m done with him.” She took a swig of mimosa before adding: “For good.”

She went on to explain that he had reached out to her a few days earlier asking if she would come to L.A. He was stuck filming and couldn’t leave town, but was eager to see her again. He even offered to buy her a plane ticket, which she took as a good sign, but she insisted that she drive. (She already knew what would become my favorite dating rule: Have your own getaway car!)

“I don’t even know how it came up,” she said, exasperated. “But for some reason I told him that I’d never actually seen any of his movies.

“I could tell that annoyed him a little, but whatever, I haven’t! Plus, wasn’t I supposed to play it cool? I didn’t want to be a fan girl.” She took another swig from her flute. “So anyway, I’m on my way out the door and he tells me he has something for me. I’m not kidding you. I’m about to leave and he hands me a shoebox full of DVDs and says, ‘Here are all my movies so you can get familiar with my work.’”

“No!” Hannah and I shouted in unison.

“Oh, I know somebody who hooked up with him,” Nancy began, under her breath, stopping after Hannah gave her a dirty look saying,
Shut the fuck up
.

“Ugh . . . why was I even attracted to him?” Lindsay wondered aloud, oblivious to Nancy’s and Hannah’s exchange. “He’s not even hot. I would have never gone out with him ordinarily. It grosses me out.”

“That’s just it. It isn’t an ordinary circumstance,” I said, setting down my iced tea with conviction. I had witnessed this same tired story a dozen times over. “Even if he’s not your type, when you are fresh off the bus, you think it’s super flattering. Right? Like, he could probably have any girl he wants and he’s pursuing
you
. Talk about a massive ego boost!

“The same thing happened to me right when I moved to L.A.,” I continued. “I’ve met lots of celebrities over the years . . . but you always remember your first.”

My first celebrity “encounter” happened only a few months after I moved to L.A. I had never even seen so much as a local newscaster in person, so the idea of an
actual
celebrity seemed completely foreign to me. If you live outside Los Angeles, it’s easy to cast this shroud of otherworldliness on famous people. Simply put, they didn’t exist in the same world as us common folk, so it never seemed imaginable that I’d bump into one on the street. You doodle his name on your school notebook; you don’t spot him strolling into your neighborhood bar.

So when a member of a pop group at the height of his career entered the restaurant I was working at in Santa Monica, I found myself surprisingly easy prey.

“Hey, can I get a table for three, please?” asked the chiseled blond with blue eyes and hair pulled back into a rough ponytail. I didn’t even recognize him. I was just oblivious. Of course, I had heard his group’s name a hundred times and had heard their songs (you’d have to be living under a rock not to), but I never paid enough attention to any of those boy bands to know one member from the other. I had always listened to rock, not pop. My proverbial notebooks would have been covered in “Mrs. Kurt Cobain.”

“Sure,” I said, gesturing for them to follow me toward a table outside my already packed section. With a smile, I handed them each a menu and told them to enjoy their lunch.

Moments later, my coworker Kira scurried up to me and through a fit of nervous giggles said, “He wants
you
to wait on him!”

“Who?” I asked, already forgetting the table I had just sat.

“You’re kidding, right?” she asked, looking aghast. She must have decided that I was kidding and added, “I want the tip, though!”

“Okkkaayy,” I said, looking around and realizing the table I had just sat was the only occupied one in her section. I just figured she thought the guy was cute or something. He definitely was conventionally good-
looking
, but he certainly wasn’t my type. He had a young Fabio vibe, so I had a hard time taking him seriously.

As I skated over toward the table (yes, I was a roller-skating waitress), I noticed all the servers were pausing between tables, whispering and not so subtly sneaking glances at the young man who looked as though he had just jumped from the cover of a Harlequin novel.

Wait,
I thought.
Who is this guy? An Abercrombie model or something?

“What can I get you guys to drink? How about a beer?” I offered, even though it was still well before noon. As a Hooters waitress, upselling was the first thing we were taught. If we weren’t too busy, it was suggested that we sit down and chat with customers, particularly the women and children. After all, Hooters was supposed to be a “family restaurant,” despite its tongue-in-cheek name. I’d happily try to upsell this table, but
I wasn’t sitting down and fawning all over this guy. He had asked for me specifically, so I had to be as professional as possible, so as not to give him the wrong idea. I’d be cheerful but distant.

As I put in the trio’s chicken wing order, I wondered about this fellow. Sure, he was good-looking, but this was L.A. Lots of people are good-looking. He was confident in a way that most people weren’t, like he
knew
he was somehow special, but without being a dick. It was a relaxed confidence—as if he knew it was only a matter of time until he got what he wanted.

Over the course of their meal, this guy slowly started to grow on me. I had to admit, there was something about him. Usually guys as good-looking as him weren’t as
nice
as he was. Or maybe I was just impressed by the crowd of oh-so-casual gawkers lurking to catch a glimpse of young Fabio.

When the time came to play his trump card, he did so with expert skill. He had years of experience under his belt and knew how to pull the “don’t you know who I am?” thing with actual aplomb.

“What’s your name?” he asked, sticking out his hand.

“Holly,” I said, confidently reaching to shake his.

“Nice to meet you,” he said before introducing himself in return.

I took note and glided back to the hostess stand so I could ask everyone who the hell this guy was. I had a name, but as I said, I wouldn’t have even known one boy band from another, so what he told me didn’t ring any bells.

A group of girls were anxiously waiting for me to return to join in on their gossip session.

“Do you know who that guy is?” I asked, subtly motioning toward the table. Before I could even share his first name with the girls, they all exploded. Kira said that the man I was talking to was a member of one of the most famous groups on the planet.

“Duh,” another girl said to me, rolling her eyes. “And he likes
you
! Get his number!”