Down the Rabbit Hole (40 page)

The bodyguard, whose expensive SUV had been idling as if he was on his way somewhere, jumped out of his car after spotting me.

“You drive a Prius?” he sneered.

“Yeah . . .” I replied, caught off guard by his making fun of me. He'd always been nice to me before, but was all of a sudden condescending and rude.

He let out a snarky laugh as he gave my car the once-over.

“Thanks for bringing this stuff down,” I said, eager to get out of what was starting to feel like a really awkward situation.

“Yeah, no problem,” he said shortly, handing me a bulging manila envelope. Without as much as a good-bye, he got back to his truck and took off.

I jumped back into my car and ripped open the envelope, anxious to see my things.

“What's wrong?” Angel asked, seeing the upset look on my face.

Some of my jewelry was missing, specifically, the items he had given me (the diamond-encrusted infinity necklace and the large cross).
Did he seriously take back those gifts?
I thought. It's not like I intended to wear jewelry given to me by an ex-boyfriend, but I didn't think he'd actually take them back, either. It was as if he was telling me I was never worth it to begin with. It was also a petty, cheap move—after all, it wasn't like I was asking for the Dalí back (although perhaps I should have!). It wasn't about the jewelry (although I did wear the small necklace and ring he had given me to a few press events, knowing I'd be photographed and what a big “Fuck You” that would come across as). It was about him not having the decency to say something to me about it. Once again, I felt like I had been thrown out with the trash.

I decided to send him a text and give him the benefit of the doubt.

“Hey, the jewelry you gave me was missing from the packet I just picked up,” I typed into my BlackBerry. I thought maybe he would have a few words explaining why he wanted to keep those things, and that would have made it all okay. But I never got a response.

I
LOOKED AT MY
new life in Las Vegas as an opportunity to reinvent myself. It had been an uphill battle, but I was finally where I wanted to be as a single, successful career woman making something of my life. To celebrate, I traded in my leased Prius and bought a convertible Porsche with some of the money I had earned on
Dancing with the Stars
. I wasted no time having it painted a custom sparkly pink. It didn't take long before I felt completely at home in my Planet Hollywood suite. I was even given an adjacent suite for my friend, Playmate Laura Croft. Laura was eager to make the move to Vegas—and I thought she would be a great character for the new reality series that I was hoping to develop. She was very pretty and had a wild personality that I hoped would translate on television.

Living at Planet Hollywood was absolutely surreal. It felt like all the perks of the mansion had been rolled up into one luxurious package and dropped squarely at my feet. Besides the gorgeous suite and 24-hour butler service, my
Peepshow
contract covered all the room service and restaurant food I could eat (including the casino Starbucks!) and limitless salon and spa services. The best part was: I never felt lonely. At any given moment there was a 24-hour party right outside my door.

As the youngest headliner on the Strip, I took the city by storm. I knew that promoting myself was the key to having a successful run with
Peepshow,
so I attended every opening, every red carpet event, and every pool party, and landed myself on the cover of all the Vegas entertainment magazines before my debut. Despite the crumbling economy, it was a magical time in Las Vegas. Somehow it seemed that the city was extra determined to carry on just as fabulously as it had before.

When I wasn't busy running around taking in all Sin City had to offer, I was buried in
Peepshow
rehearsals. I couldn't have been more excited at the opportunity, but I was terrified that I wouldn't be able pull it off. Would people really pay to see me? I had only a few weeks of rehearsal and managed to pick up the choreography pretty quickly (thanks in large part to my time on
DWTS
), but all those insecurities were still running rampant. Sure, I had done pictorials for
Playboy,
but those photos were rigidly posed, heavily lit, and accessorized to perfectly complement my body. For
Peepshow,
I would be performing on stage for 90 minutes in front of a live audience wearing the tiniest costumes. My body had taken such a beating during the exhaustive rehearsals and I had bruises everywhere—not to mention scars and what remained of my Playboy Bunny tattoo.

“My boobs are going to look disgusting,” I told Nick, the choreographer. I imagined them bouncing all over the place during the highly aerobic performance and it didn't necessarily strike me as sexy. He assured me that it was all in my head.

This was my big break. If I could manage to fill seats and earn favorable reviews over those three months, maybe they would decide to let me stay. I busted my ass day and night to make sure I gave this show everything.

The tremendously talented cast was warm and welcoming. I'm not sure they thought a reality TV star could add anything to their show, but they saw how hard I was working and that I took the production very seriously. It wasn't long before I joined their inner circle. Most of the cast were Broadway singers and dancers brought in from New York (Jerry wanted the best of everything!), so all these new transplants bonded quickly. And like me, they were taking the city by storm! After rehearsals, the cast would hang out at Striphouse, the restaurant next to our theater, and hit up clubs every couple of nights. I grew especially close to the lead singer, Josh Strickland, who became like a brother to me almost instantly. I don't think there was ever a group of people that had as much fun as we did. It was an amazing time to be a part of that show. As I prepped for my debut, I'd watch Kelly Monaco's nightly performances. She'd offer me a friendly wave from the rafters before taking her plunge down onto the stage each night.

For so long I dreamed of becoming a performer, and this was my chance to prove to everyone that I was capable of more than being a “trophy girlfriend.”

It didn't faze me that the audience was never packed (maybe it should have). The show was averaging roughly 300 people a night, which was pretty dismal considering the size of the theater and the expense of the production, but in early 2009, people weren't flocking to Vegas to see shows. If they happened to come to the city, they most likely spent their time in the casinos hoping to earn back some of what they lost in the recession.

Either way, it was clear that something needed to change to help drive attendance, so right when I entered production, executives began an entire overhaul on
Peepshow
's marketing campaign. You couldn't turn a corner in Las Vegas without seeing me smiling on a billboard, poster, or taxi. Suddenly the show had a face . . . and it was mine! But whether or not that face would sell tickets remained to be seen.

As (bad) luck would have it, when my opening night came around, I hit some rough waters.

Earlier that day, I had decided to text Criss. In retrospect it was a dumb move, but I was just so happy and in a place where personally I wanted to forgive and forget. I'd heard from mutual acquaintances that Criss was not pleased when I got the
Peepshow
gig and announced my return to Las Vegas. After all, it had been his agenda to banish me from Vegas as if I had never existed. It must have chafed him even more that my appearance on
Dancing with the Stars
ended just as I had landed
Peepshow
. And, whether I liked it or not, Criss was still a high-profile person in my new hometown, which could prove to be very small at times. Why not make an attempt to bury the hatchet? We'd almost certainly run into each other at some point.

“Hey, I just wanted to extend an invitation to my premier party tonight,” I typed into my phone. “I wish you and your girlfriend the best!”

I assumed I wouldn't hear back from him, but wanted to extend the olive branch, so I at least knew I did what I could to end things on the best note possible.

A few hours later, I was backstage in my dressing room putting the finishing touches on my hair and makeup. I was taking a few deep breaths to calm my nerves when I heard my cell phone buzz. It was a text message from Criss. Instinctively, I looked at the clock.

He must be going on late,
I thought. It was a few minutes after his second show should have started. I expected a generic “Good luck tonight” message. Instead, it went a little something like this:

“I told myself I wouldn't do this, but I am answering your text anyway. Criss is with me now. Stop texting him. You are disgusting. You are in a burlesque show because you can't do anything else. You used an old man to get to the B-list. Criss told me the real reason you guys broke up. It's not because of scheduling differences, it was because you were on antidepressants and he couldn't be with someone like that. If I had your reputation, I would be on antidepressants, too. You are the biggest running joke around here. You got used. Lose this number.”

My face went white and I felt faint. I was completely beside myself. Apparently, his new girlfriend had taken his phone during his performance. I sat still for what felt like 10 minutes reading and rereading the text. So many petty comebacks flashed through my mind. I wanted to tell her that soon
she
would be the biggest running joke (Criss routinely dumped his girlfriends whenever he had a famous fling, and many of them would come crawling back the moment it fizzled). I wanted to tell her no one would even
want
to look at her face, let alone pay to see it. But mostly I wanted to tell her that Criss lied to her about our breakup. I already knew he could be a piece of shit, but I couldn't believe he was sharing my private life with her! During one of our late-night talks, I had confided to Criss that I had taken antidepressants in the past. I was never ashamed of needing help, but the fact that he would use that information against me really pissed me off. It wasn't right.

After taking a moment, I simply replied: “Criss lied to you. I wasn't even on antidepressants when we were together.” I didn't need to prove anything to her—and who knows if she would believe me anyway—but I wanted to say my piece. Not to mention, I wanted to take the opportunity to scroll through my BlackBerry and find one of the many flirty texts Criss sent me six weeks earlier when I was on
DWTS
(and after he had already moved her in). I selected a particularly salacious one, typed in my response to her rant, and hit Send.

“Oh my god, what happened?” Angel asked. She had come backstage to wish me luck and immediately registered the tears welling up in my eyes.

I read the text out loud to her and explained what happened.

“Do
not
let this get to you,” she said, grabbing my shoulders and looking me in the eye. “Do
not
let this ruin
your
night. And don't think for a second she doesn't know what she's doing. She knows this is your big night. It's all over town!”

“Thanks,” I said, sniffing back the tears, so grateful that Angel had been there at that exact moment to say precisely what I needed to hear. “You're right.”

I took a deep breath, stood up from my chair, pulled my shoulders back, and left my dressing room to face the press.

(Being the “small town” that the Vegas entertainment community is, I eventually heard about the aftermath of my response to that mean text. After reading it—and Criss's earlier message—his girlfriend didn't let him escape unscathed. She apparently made an absolute scene in his dressing room during intermission and left him, only to come crawling back later, of course. I changed my number after that.)

Unfortunately, the night would not be without another hiccup as the show encountered some technical difficulties. The lift that was supposed to carry the male lead and me onto the stage for my big number wasn't working. As the stage went dark between scenes the stagehands swept the props (and us!) off into the wings. Quickly, I raced down the backstage stairs for my change (which included being dried off and having my hair redone in roughly 60 seconds) before making a far less dramatic entrance from the side of the stage. After the show, the cast laughed off the glitch and encouraged me (still rather distressed over it) to do the same. It was somehow freeing to know that I could survive even the most inopportune malfunctions and still manage to go on.

Despite the mean text message and the broken lift, my official debut in
Peepshow
couldn't have been more perfect! After the performance, executives hosted a gala . . . for me! While fancy parties weren't anything new, I felt like the toast of the town drinking champagne and hanging out with industry bigwigs who were all there to toast my debut. Josh and Angel helped me laugh off the mean text from Criss's girlfriend. And despite the lift debacle, my reviews were glowing and advance ticket sales skyrocketed—making for some very happy producers. Planet Hollywood even blacked out the “Wood” on the hotel's giant neon sign so it read “Planet Holly” for the night. Was I dreaming? Or did this somehow really become my life?

R
IGHT AROUND THE TIME
of my arrival, Planet Hollywood announced an upcoming auction of some of Marilyn Monroe's personal belongings, which would be put on display throughout the casino. When I was asked to model them for an upcoming magazine feature, I couldn't believe my luck.

Beyond honored, I modeled many of Marilyn's personal items, which I recognized from famous photos of the star: a white terry cloth bathrobe, an orange Pucci top, a curve-hugging fuchsia day dress, etc. I was fascinated with the quality of the pieces—things were constructed with so much more care back in Marilyn's time! Even her causal wear was of the highest quality.