The Vegas Diaries, page 11
I was determined to be as cautious as possible next time I dated anyone, famous or not.
CHAPTER 5
“How about my heart?” asked the Tin Woodman.
“Why, as for that,” answered Oz, “I think you are wrong to want a heart. It makes most people unhappy.”
—L. Frank Baum, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
Do you guys want to go house hunting with me next week?” I asked Josh and Hannah without looking up from my phone. I shifted my weight on the barstool, trying to get comfortable in my white pencil skirt, tightly cinched Blonds corset, and Miu Miu heels.
“You don’t like livin’ in the hotel no more?” Josh asked in an exaggerated version of his South Carolinian accent, raising an eyebrow at me over his glass of pinot. We were sitting at the Strip House bar, all dressed up for that night’s special post-show event.
“It would just be nice to have a house,” I said, finally looking up from my BlackBerry. “You know, decorate . . . pick out my own furniture, have something to call my own. I love the suite, but I can’t live there forever.”
“Where’s Aubrey?” Hannah purred, looking around for my new redheaded costar. It was the night of Aubrey’s premiere party, held at the sumptuous steakhouse next to the show’s theater, but strangely enough, she hadn’t shown up.
“I dunno.” I shrugged, taking a moment to thank the bartender for the cocktail he set in front of me. “She was outside the theater doing press with me after the show,” I continued. “She didn’t act like anything was wrong . . . Maybe it has something to do with those leaked photos.” That evening’s show had started uncharacteristically late because every single person in the audience was required to check their phones at the door before entering the theater. A day earlier, photos of Aubrey in her first performance had been leaked, which were then compared mercilessly online with her polished promo shots. She called in sick that night, choosing instead to post a video with her shirt off. It amounted to a swirl of blog publicity for Peepshow, but it wasn’t the sort of press the show was used to. I didn’t know if the whole thing was a cleverly orchestrated publicity stunt on her end or a genuine leak, but my only option was to stay out of it. I had enough drama of my own to deal with!
“I’m not too worried,” I added. “I’m sure she’ll show up eventually.” I was too distracted to give it much thought, scrolling through real estate listings on my phone, trying to find “the one” in the housing market.
With Peepshow on autopilot, I was feeling antsy to keep moving forward. There was always the next project, the next goal. I needed to constantly be in action, with not a moment to waste. I started thinking about how nice it would be to put down roots and invest some money in a home. I also started thinking how nice it would be to have a boyfriend. Eight months had passed since my last serious relationship had ended, and I was starting to crave that extra element in my life.
The few guys who had hit me up recently seemed more interested in getting to know the girl on the billboard than in getting to know me. Where in Las Vegas could I find a guy capable of having a serious relationship? I was starting to understand what I was told was the Las Vegas woman’s motto: “I only date out of state.”
The next day I stopped by Lindsay’s apartment to pick her up for lunch when I noticed something unusual among her typical mess of ostrich-feather boas and stray stilettos. It wasn’t strange to see books among Lindsay’s messes, but they were mostly thrillers or popular fiction.
“Lindsay, what is this?” I asked, holding up the misfit paperback I had just discovered.
“Huh?” she crowed, peeking her head out of her bedroom. “Oh, that’s the ‘Bitch Book.’ Want to borrow it?”
“The ‘Bitch Book’?” I repeated, leaning back on her chaise longue and flipping to the table of contents in Why Men Love Bitches.
“One of my friends from back home was telling me to read it. It’s all about getting a guy to commit,” Lindsay shouted over her hair dryer. “Supposedly it works!”
“I hope you’re not trying this on your L.A. douche nozzle,” I yelled. This sounded like a recipe for disaster.
“No way,” she scoffed, strolling into the living room and twisting her hair into a partially dried bun on top of her head. “I’m so over him. That book is about self-respect. I’m tired of being a doormat and always getting my heart broken.”
I looked at her incredulously. How could a book magically fix a lifetime of self-inflicted bad-boy addiction? Lindsay was beautiful, talented, and kind, but her lack of confidence didn’t reflect that. So many of the choices she made, from the jobs she took to the men she dated, seemed to indicate a dearth of self-esteem.
“You should read it, too,” she announced, throwing a very pointed look my way. I casually thumbed through and paused on the last page: The bitch has a strong will and faith in herself . . . the most attractive quality of all is dignity.
I had to admit, the advice didn’t sound half as cheesy as I would have guessed.
“Okay, maybe I’ll look at it when you are done,” I conceded, setting the book back down on her mirrored coffee table. After all, her sales pitch did make it sound kind of appealing.
Since my dating experience was severely limited, or at least highly unusual, I was desperate for guidance. The two relationships I had in my twenties could easily be described as tragic. Both times I had rushed into the relationships without really knowing the person or what I was getting myself into. I couldn’t risk making those mistakes again. When it comes to dating, we’re told to always use protection—and that’s what I planned to do . . . in more ways than one.
It took me less than a day to tear through the “Bitch Book,” and I was addicted. The idea that you could take control of your love life appealed to me. I took other recommendations from friends like The Rules and He’s Just Not That Into You. I’ve always been a voracious reader, and I figured that if I was going to date, I needed to date smart. I thought following a protocol might help me make better choices when it came to love. Though some of the Rules sounded a bit repulsive—such as “Don’t Stare at Men or Talk Too Much,” “How to Act on Dates 1–3,” and my personal favorite “Don’t Discuss the Rules with Your Therapist”—for the most part, these books seemed to point the reader toward a standoffish, hard-to-get vibe, and that was definitely where I wanted to go. I was done jumping into relationships headfirst, committing myself fully, and then regretting it. The next time I started seeing someone, I was going to go slow, with eyes wide open. And if I needed something as cheesy as a dating book to help me do it, so be it.
HANNAH AND I WERE drying ourselves off after braving a makeshift indoor Slip’N Slide when she nodded to a dude standing by the bar a few feet in front of us and whispered, “Do you know who that is?”
I shook my head. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place him. There were plenty of famous people populating the private party in one of the Palms’s largest (10,000 square feet, that is) high-roller suites, which included a full-sized indoor basketball court. In fact, the party was thrown entirely for the purpose of one rock star wanting to get “candidly” photographed partying with the scantily clad women currently dancing around him.
I turned my attention back to Hannah and gave her a look that said, Well, who is he?
“That’s Jeffrey Decker,” Hannah continued. “He’s a music video director. We saw him in the booth next to us at Simon brunch a few months ago and I couldn’t place who he was. He had a Mohawk back then.”
Jeffrey’s dark hair was now cropped short, but he was indeed the cute guy with the Mohawk I had taken notice of. She gave me a devilish half grin, slowly licked her finger, leaned toward him and stuck it right in his left ear and twisted. This didn’t surprise me whatsoever, but I was definitely expecting a “What the fuck?” reaction from this guy (which I wouldn’t have blamed him for at all). But to his credit, after jerking his head back, Jeffrey looked over his shoulder, his eyes landing on Hannah, then me, and just smiled . . . a big, magnetic smile.
Instinctively I smiled back, and instantly he got cuter. We caught each other’s gaze a few times throughout the party, and eventually he came over to introduce himself. Because I’m so incredibly awkward when it comes to making small talk, I said hello, then promptly turned to order a drink.
Jeffrey stuck close to his crew, including a guy named Drew, a casino host at one of the resorts I frequented. One Grey Goose and soda later, Hannah announced that the party was dead and demanded we leave.
A few days later, I was surprised to get a text from Drew: “Good to see you the other night. My friend Jeffrey Decker asked for your number. Do you care if I give it to him?”
I explained to Drew that I didn’t really know Jeffrey beyond our brief introduction and I worried that if he had my number, it might be weird. Plus, the thought of having to talk to a random guy was crippling. I wondered what Jeffrey’s motivations were. My self-esteem was so low that I figured any guy who was so anxious to get to know me had to have an ulterior motive.
Recognizing my hesitation, Drew assured me that Jeffrey was a “really nice guy” and that I should give him a chance. Eventually I agreed (I had yet to learn that guys will work just as hard to get their friends laid as they will to get themselves laid). Jeffrey did seem friendly and I liked the fact that he didn’t balk at Hannah’s brashness. What the hell, I thought. The only way to meet someone was to put myself out there. I’m pretty sure my soul mate wasn’t going to just arrive one day on the room-service cart.
A few days later, my phone buzzed to alert me of a new text message from a number I didn’t recognize.
“Hi, Holly, this is Jeffrey. Drew gave me your number. I hope you don’t mind : )”
What do I say back? I thought. At least he had been the one to reach out first, which according to The Rules, was the perfect first step. Rule 2 was “Don’t Talk to a Man First.” Check! When it came to responding, the relationship experts would surely encourage me to play it cool, friendly, and just a touch disinterested. I tried to keep it casual by telling him that Drew had asked me beforehand, so it was no big deal.
He said that it was so nice meeting me and that he hoped we’d run into each other again. I knew that how I responded was critical: he might be looking for me to drop a clue as to whether I’d agree to go out with him if he’d ask. I didn’t want to give him what he was looking for, so I offered a jokey non-answer about how he was just looking for someone to give him another “Wet Willy.”
“Ha! That was the first one I’d had in a long time. Maybe I’ll see you around!”
I knew I needed to let the conversation hang, so I put my phone away. After all, Rule 7 is “Always End Everything First.” I wanted to do a bit of research about this guy before deciding whether to continue talking with him. I saw that he started following me on Twitter, so I followed him back. After looking at his profile page, I was a little disappointed because he didn’t seem to have much of a sense of humor, judging by his tweets, anyway. I hoped that disconnect wouldn’t be the same in real life! I decided to dig deeper. I’m the first one to tell people that you can’t believe half the shit that’s on the Internet, but true or not, I was curious to at least see what was out there. The first thing that came up was his dating history. My heart sank when I realized Jeffrey had been linked to a laundry list of models and TV personalities. No wonder Hannah had known who he was! Ordinarily a director would stay behind the scenes, but based on the tabloid fascination with the women he dated, this guy was recognizable. I was bummed. Jeffrey wasn’t sounding like much of a promising option after all. If he went out of his way to date such women, I figured he must be a fame whore.
“He must be really lame because he dates only famous girls or models,” I ranted to Hannah and Laura, both of whom were deeply immersed in other business. “It’s kind of a turn off. And do I really want to be just another notch on his belt? No thank you.”
“Mm-hmm,” mumbled Laura, in a faux offering of support as she studiously flipped through a magazine. Hannah stayed quiet, burying herself in whatever text conversation she was having. My girlfriends (especially these two) rarely shied away from voicing their opinions, so I knew something was up.
It dawned on me that I sounded like a hypocrite.
“Okay, fine,” I acquiesced. “I know what you’re thinking. I don’t want to be judged for my dating history either.” I plopped down on the couch next to Laura and added: “I get it. Who am I to judge Jeffrey? Anyone who looked at who I dated would get the wrong idea for sure.”
I went on. “I should cut him a break and not take everything I read online so seriously. Maybe he is a good guy, but just got involved with the wrong people. Maybe he had really liked the women he dated for who they were deep down? Who knows?
“If he hits me up again, I’ll definitely keep talking to him,” I announced. Both Hannah and Laura were looking at me with poorly concealed smirks before Hannah started giggling.
“You just fully had a conversation with yourself,” Hannah snorted.
I didn’t hear anything from or about Jeffrey again until Hannah and I attended an early afternoon pool party at the Wynn the next day.
“Doesn’t her hair look fake?” I heard a female voice sneer behind me. We had grabbed some appetizers and were perched around one of the high-top tables surrounding the glittering pool. I glanced over my shoulder to see a woman sneering and pointing at me.
It was true, I was wearing a fall to accentuate my own hair. I didn’t care. I liked the way it looked, so I ignored the catty trophy wife behind me. You try keeping my schedule and finding the time to keep your hair looking perfect.
Just as the lady behind me was chipping away at my self-confidence, I happened to lock eyes with one of the most gorgeous women in the room. I’m not usually competitive (I’ve spent a lot of time sharing the spotlight), but I couldn’t help feeling a little bit janky when I noticed this particular girl and her perfectly put-together signature look. She reminded me of all the corners I cut when I threw myself together that morning. What I wouldn’t give for an extra hour a day for a professional blow-out, I thought wistfully. This girl looked like she lived in a blow-dry bar.
She strutted toward me as if on a runway. Her name was Andi and she was a local model. She had a soft, wavy, chocolate-brown mane that tumbled down just past her shoulders, heavy-lidded hazel cat eyes, bronze skin, and perfect, pouty lips that never quite seemed to close. Shorter than the average model, Andi made up for it by oozing sex appeal. Every guy I knew had either dated her or was desperate to.
“How’ve you been, honey?” she purred, sliding into the seat next to me and tapping me playfully on the arm. Andi was always in perma-flirt mode with anyone she met, male or female. Soft touches, light hair flips, sleepy eyelids, kitten voice . . . this woman was always on. No wonder all the guys chased after her!
I had met her a few times at various events. The model population in Vegas is pretty small, and she was one of the premier talents and therefore a familiar face to anyone who spent a fair amount of time in the city, looking at billboards or perusing local magazines. She was friendly, but we weren’t close by any means. Andi was a guys’ girl and didn’t seem to have too many female friends. Hannah, who couldn’t stand Andi, excused herself almost immediately from the table.
“I’m hosting a little party at Rehab next weekend, if you want to come,” she said. “I’m really hoping some guy there will catch my eye. I’m having zero luck in the love business—especially with this last guy I was seeing.”
“I’m not having much luck either,” I confessed, deciding to join her little pity party for the sake of conversation, and told her the story about me losing my lunch outside the fancy car of the last guy I had sort of dated.
“Who have you been seeing?” I asked, trying to keep the conversation going.
She looked me straight in the eyes and with her full glitter-glossed lips said, “Jeffrey Decker.”
Fuck, I thought. Having spent most of my life trying to avoid awkward confrontations at all costs, I had been finding myself in a shit ton of them recently.
“Oh,” I said, almost choking on the lobster slider I had been eating. “Yeah, I just met him recently. He seems, um, nice.” It was lame, I knew it, but I didn’t know what else to say. I wasn’t going to lie and act as if I had never talked to him, but I wasn’t even sure if I was interested in him romantically, so there was really nothing else to say.
“Are you guys still together?” I asked. Jeffrey hadn’t mentioned having a girlfriend.
“Not really.” She pouted, looking down at her lap and picking at the beaded edge of her Haute Hippie skirt. “He’s great, but a little too busy with work to focus on a relationship.”
“That sucks,” I said, trying my best to sound sympathetic. I wondered if she had heard somehow that Jeffrey and I were talking and tracked me down on purpose . . . to claim her turf, piss on the trees, and remind me of a presumed “girl code” that might exist between us. Generally, I think girl code (aka staying far, far away from any guys your friends have dated) is a good idea, but I didn’t feel like it applied in this situation. I barely knew Andi. And, no offense, but to stay away from every guy Andi had dated would narrow the dating pool quite drastically.
Jeffrey texted me the following week to let me know that he was set to work on an indie film for the rest of the month. The movie was being shot on location in Australia, and he was heading down under immediately. Jet-lagged and lacking any friends around to distract him, he often wound up diving into long, thoughtful text conversations with me. We were in communication constantly over the next few weeks. For an extreme introvert like me, this is definitely the most comfortable way to get to know someone. We discussed music, movies, travel, food . . . you name it. Being a night owl myself, I’d begun spending hours each night on the phone texting with Jeffrey. We had quickly developed our own rapport: private jokes, stupid nicknames, and sharing secrets. In the span of a month, it was as if we’d become close friends. He knew when I’d have a big meeting, and I’d be sure to ask him about a particularly grueling day on set.
