The Vegas Diaries: Romance, Rolling the Dice, and the Road to Reinvention (10 page)

I didn’t have to. The next time I skated back to check on his table, he made the next move.

“Hey, would you like to go out on a date with me this weekend?” he asked point-blank. Immediately I was taken aback, but paused before regurgitating the standard “No, thank you,” I’d perfected for the more assertive customers. Most guys who approached me were prone to just offering to “hang out,” so there was something flattering about being asked out on a proper date.

Ordinarily, I would never have been interested in this guy. In fact, between school and work, I didn’t really have the time to date, period. But I had to admit, I was starting to buy into the hype around him. This wasn’t just a guy; this was an
adventure
. I was still young and naïve enough to think that if someone had what it took to become famous, there must be something special about him, right? I hadn’t been in town but a few months, so the idea of being around a celebrity was still a novelty to me. And aren’t new adventures one of the things I had been searching for, after all?

Just his wandering into the restaurant where I worked was worth a call home. Imagine all the fuss an actual date would create? Most of the folks who stopped into the Santa Monica eatery were tourists, not pop stars. I thought this was just the kind of story my family and friends back home were expecting to hear, so why not?

“Okay,” I agreed, with just a hint of reluctance. He handed me his phone and asked that I plug in my number. Without saying another word, I turned to skate away. It would have been even more awkward if I lingered. When he got up to leave, I saw a small swarm of fans approach him for photos, with which he politely complied and flashed his white, toothy pop star grin.

“Oh my god, he got your number! Are you guys gonna go out?” Kira squealed, grabbing the check folder to see how much she just landed. “Wow, he must
really
like you.”

“I don’t know,” I shrugged, trying my best to sound unenthusiastic.
Five minutes ago I didn’t know who this guy was. I didn’t want to act all giddy now. On the inside I was totally drinking the Kool-Aid, but I didn’t want any of them to know that. “I guess I’m supposed to see him this weekend. We’ll see.”

Half a dozen servers huddled around me—even the manager seemed impressed! I had to admit, I was enjoying all this attention. This guy was a pop idol who was adored by millions, and he had eyes for
me
. As lame as the whole thing sounds, it did kind of make me feel special.

Not long after he called and invited me bowling, which I thought was cute. So far this whole courtship felt traditional and sweet. Isn’t a bowling date something straight out of a fifties sitcom? Maybe he’d give me his varsity sweater, too. I think he could sense I was a little hesitant and suggested that maybe I’d be more comfortable if we each brought a friend and we could make it a double date. I jumped at the chance; having a friend along for the ride would make things way less awkward. I invited an acquaintance, who couldn’t wait to get a glimpse of this household name in the flesh.

When she and I arrived at the Westside bowling alley, it looked completely closed. Not a single car was in the parking lot.

“Shit,” I said.

“Are we in the right place?” she asked me.

“This is where he told me to meet him,” I said. Just as I took out my phone to call him, a huge black SUV came barreling into the abandoned parking lot. The back door opened and he came spilling out of the car with his friend, who, I would later learn, just happened to be another member of his group.

“I think it’s closed,” I said, pointing toward the dimly lit doors.

“It is,” he said, a huge grin spreading across his face. “To everyone but us.”

He threw his arm around my shoulders, exuding his brand of charming confidence, and led me inside the empty bowling alley. A stocky older man introduced himself as the manager; he handed us each brand-new
shoes, set up our lane, and even offered us drinks from the bar. Besides him and the security detail, it was just the four of us on what had to be the most expensive first date I’d ever been on. After an hour or so, we had successfully proven ourselves to all be terrible bowlers and the guys suggested we go to the Santa Monica pier for some rides and carnival games. Since my friend and I were working the late shift that night, and the pier was so near the restaurant, we agreed to go.

It wasn’t long before a handful of screaming girls were following us around. I laughed to myself. Here I was, an ordinary girl with a thick mop of strawberry blond hair and a puffy white Gap coat. These crazed fans were probably wondering who the hell I was while at the same time wishing they were in my place. We bounced from game to game as he proved he was one of those guys with luck on his side, slaying each carnival game as if it was nothing. He handed me the giant plush pink teddy bear he won and planted a kiss on my cheek. My friend and I took this as our cue. We thanked them for the fun night and promised to be in touch.

“We have a couple of shows scheduled, but I’ll be back soon,” he said, pulling me into a big hug. I practically skipped off the pier and down the Third Street Promenade. Despite my initial reluctance, I was actually starting to like this guy. At twenty-one years old, who could blame me? It was all so surreal!

As the days turned into a week, I didn’t hear from him.

“He’s busy,” I told my roommate when she asked about him. She rolled her eyes and dropped it. He finally called the following week. Just like I expected, he blamed his chaotic schedule for being out of touch since our date, but said he was really looking forward to seeing me the next weekend if I was free. He was less engaging than I’d hoped he would be, but I chalked it up to jet lag.
Hey,
I thought.
Maybe he’s just not a phone person. I’m certainly not!

And so our relationship went (if you can even call it a relationship). He would string me along just enough to keep me interested, then disap
pear. Each conversation was less exciting than the one before, but I was eager to try and recapture the magic of our first date. By that point, I was sort of invested. Not emotionally—it was more of a pride thing. Word had traveled fast, and it seemed like everyone I knew was aware of my celebrity suitor, and it would be a bruise to my ego if I had to tell everyone he blew me off.

When he told me he was coming back to L.A. and suggested we go out, I agreed.

“Why?” my roommate asked after overhearing the phone call. “He’s just going to let you down again.”

“He is not,” I argued, defending my decision. “He’s a nice guy!”

“Ughhhh,” she said, stamping her foot. “Holly! He is
not
nice. He flakes on your phone calls, he doesn’t fly you out to see him, and he makes promises he doesn’t keep!”

She was right. I knew that deep down, but I told myself that things might be different in person. He was skilled in the art of smoothing things over, flattering me with his compliments. But this was all a part of his game—his carnival game, where winning me over again and again was the prize.
Was
this all a game to him? The novelty was starting to fade and I was beginning to feel foolish every time someone at work asked me about my celebrity “boyfriend.” I felt like I had to see him one more time. Maybe we would capture lightning in a bottle or maybe I would decide he wasn’t worth my time, but I needed one last date to know how I really felt, and perhaps to save just a little bit of face.

“Just come over,” he pleaded. He was back in Los Angeles for a concert and invited me to meet up at the hotel where he was staying in the South Bay, which is about twenty minutes south of Santa Monica and even farther from downtown (where he was performing the following evening).

“Why are you staying all the way down there?” I asked, dodging the invite.

“Will you please drive down and meet me?” he pressed. “I’m trying
to fly under the radar. Fans would find my hotel if I stayed right next to the venue.”

Per usual, he said all the right things, and I begrudgingly accepted. Driving down the 405 in my dinged-up old car, I knew this was going to be it: either we were going to have an amazing night together or it was going to fizzle out and be over. I knocked on the door to his hotel room and he answered the door in a velour tracksuit.

“Would you like a glass of wine?” he offered as I stepped into the hotel suite. I had only ever stayed in tiny hotel rooms before, so the suite really impressed me. I was in awe that it came complete with a living room, a bar, and an entryway in addition to a bedroom! I nodded politely and thanked him when he handed me the glass.

“You want to see my new video?” he asked. I noticed just a glint of boyish excitement in his eyes. “I just got a copy.”

I wasn’t really into his music, so I would have rather just hung out, talked, and enjoyed each other’s company. But what could I say? I nodded my head again.

He wandered into the bedroom and popped his DVD into the player. I followed and perched myself on the corner of the bed. He immediately began rattling on: commenting and narrating each segment as if he were a real-life version of
Pop Up Video
. When it was finally over, he called his assistant and asked him to order “the usual.”

Even though this was clearly going south quickly, I was still eager to give it one last try. Never mind the fact that he didn’t even bother to ask me if I wanted anything when he ordered “the usual.” I just thought that maybe if we were forced to have a conversation, then
maybe
there would still be something there.

For about twenty minutes, we talked music. He never asked me what bands I was interested in, instead just rotated through his own collection while I chimed in if it was someone I actually knew about. When I made a comment about one particular artist I liked, a sour look appeared on his face.

“I like him, too, but he did a song with the
other
band,” he said, screwing up his face in exaggerated disgust and making a point to avoid uttering the name of the rival boy band, as if they were Lord Voldemort. “It hasn’t been released yet.”

“Who’s the
other
band?” I asked.

Begrudgingly he let the syllables fall from his mouth, with a slight annoyance that I hadn’t already known that there was beef between these two supergroups. I got the impression he assumed I was a fan of his, even though I had never tried to fake knowing anything about him, his band, or their music.
Maybe he assumes every young woman is a fan?
I wondered.
Or maybe he thinks the only women who would want to go out with him are fans?
Either way, I registered the whole situation as kind of sad.

Just about as sad as you only being interested in this guy because he is a celebrity,
a little voice in my head piped up. Immediately I felt gross and wished I could get as far away from there as I could. Despite being starstruck, I knew that this was not a person I wanted to spend any more time with. But how could I get out of this without being totally awkward? I was starting to feel anxious when I tried to think about what my next move would be.

Suddenly I heard a knock at the door.

“I’ll get it,” I exclaimed, nearly falling off the bed. I thought it was the thoughtful thing to do, answering the door for him. Not to mention, I was antsy and looking for a distraction, no matter how fleeting, from our awkward conversation.

One of his assistants stood alone at the door. He held a plastic drugstore bag out toward me, reached inside, and set it on the entry table, a knowing look in his eye. I was surprised not to see any dinner, so I thanked him absent-mindedly.

The bag sat there, open. I could see inside it. I expected to see protein bars or shaving cream or some other mundane essentials. Instead, the bag contained nothing but an industrial-sized tube of K-Y Jelly.

“Ummmm,” I mused loudly, still standing in the suite’s foyer. “Actually, I think I’d better be going. I have class early in the morning.”

“Oh, come on, just stay!” he half shouted from the bedroom. “I’ll make sure you get a wake-up call.”

“No, I have to go.” I grabbed the purse I had left in the entryway and bolted. He tried to call out after me, but I wouldn’t even turn around.

“I spoke to him only once after that,” I told my friends while I set my credit card on the check the waitress had brought to our table. “It was over the phone. He called me as if nothing was wrong, but I basically told him that I felt like he treated me like a groupie and that I was over it. Luckily, I had been at home with my roommate when he called. Something about having her there made me feel like I could actually say what I felt. Usually I’m not that together when it comes to guys—even more so back then. I either ghost on them without a word of explanation or end up getting walked all over,” I admitted as I stirred the ice around in my otherwise empty glass.

Obviously, that wasn’t the last time I would be interested in a guy in large part because of his fame. I still had a lesson to learn. Famous people aren’t special or different from anyone else. In fact, what you see on TV is most often
not
what you get.

“I still cannot believe you dated
him
!” Lindsay said, which made me wonder if she somehow missed the moral of the story.

“Lindsay, he was a tool!” I exclaimed, tossing my napkin at her.

“I know, but I loved him when I was growing up,” she said, starry-eyed with nostalgia.

“And you’re really wondering how you fell back in bed with the dick bag in L.A.?” Hannah asked her.

“You’re so right.” Lindsay laughed.

W
HEN IT CAME TO
romance, I had yet to dip my toe in the Vegas dating pool, unless you count my dine-and-dash with Russell Brand. Nancy had
tried to convince me to give one of her friends a chance, but no one she suggested seemed like a good fit. She swore Eric, her new boss, was sick of his girlfriend and wanted to go out with me, but I wasn’t about to go out with someone who was still attached.

One afternoon Nancy finally suggested someone who did sound interesting.

I had just signed on for another three months in
Peepshow
, and to celebrate, the casino rolled out some customized slot machines with my picture on them, as well as some blackjack tables emblazoned with my name and likeness. Nancy had come over to Planet Hollywood to hang out while I was photographed with the machines and tables now gracing the casino. As I positioned myself on one of the tables, carefully arranging a hand of cards in a perfect fan for the photo, we talked about her plans for the night. She bent over to artfully place some chips next to me, then leaned back against a chair, and purposefully dropped the name of a comedian I was a fan of.