Chapter 3

SIN CITY

For everything there is a season,

a time for every activity under heaven. . . .

A time to tear down and a time to build up.

A time to cry and a time to laugh.

A time to grieve and a time to dance.

ECCLESIASTES 3:1, 3-4, NLT

THEY SAY THAT ALL GOOD THINGS must come to an end, and unfortunately the idyllic childhood I had in Jackpot was no exception. One by one, my relatives started moving away. Work was hard to find in Jackpot, so they were forced to relocate to anywhere they could find jobs.

And then, just as I was getting ready to start fifth grade, Mom announced that we were moving out of Jackpot too.

I’d been raised not to whine or talk back, so I politely asked, “Where are we moving to?”

“About seven hours from here,” she said. “To Las Vegas. Trust me, Kylie—you’re going to love it.”

I wasn’t so sure I’d love it, but I was willing to give it a try. After all, we were going to be moving in with my mom’s sister and her five children, which meant I’d have cousins to play with 24-7. Plus, I had a hunch that Vegas might be just the place to get my start in modeling.

Shortly after we arrived in Vegas, Mom took over as nanny for my five cousins, and Dad found a job in real estate. It didn’t take long for me to admit that Mom was right: I did love it. In fact, in a lot of ways, life in Vegas wasn’t all that different from what we’d left behind. I was surrounded by my cousins, Mom was home all the time, and even though Dad was now working days, he still carved out time to play hard-core Monopoly tournaments with my cousins and me and to watch movies with us in the evenings. I always chose the happily-ever-after movies, where the princess gets her happy ending. I might have been a tomboy, but I was a romantic at heart.

I started playing basketball at school and quickly found out I wasn’t just a good player for Jackpot; I was good for Vegas. Of course, it didn’t hurt that I kept getting taller. Mom, Dad, and my cousins came to cheer me on at every game, and I couldn’t have been happier.

But between my sixth- and seventh-grade years, everything started to change. Dad was spending more and more time at work, and soon our movie nights and Monopoly tournaments went by the wayside. Worst of all, I sensed a growing disconnect between us. It felt like we were moving in opposite directions.

One morning I came up behind Dad while he was finishing the breakfast dishes and gave him a hug.

“Dad, I miss you,” I said. “You’ve been working so much. I feel like I never see you anymore.”

“I know, Ky.” He dried his hands. “I’m working hard so you and your mom can have nice things. I want you to have what I didn’t have growing up.”

I didn’t say anything, but deep down I missed our old life in Jackpot, when we had less money but more time together. Things were different now, and our lives were about to change even more.

Mom was expecting a baby in a few months, and I knew my new brother would take even more of my dad’s attention away from me. I wasn’t jealous. I just felt abandoned and confused. I might not have been able to put words to it then, but I knew I no longer was “Daddy’s little girl.” In fact, at thirteen years old and almost five feet eight inches tall, I wasn’t a little girl anymore, period.

By the time I started eighth grade, I towered over most of the boys in my class. And I still was awkwardly thin. When you’re in junior high, that’s a perfect setup for getting teased. For a girl like me who tended to be on the sensitive side, it felt brutal. As I walked down the hall, girls I didn’t even know would call me an “anorexic b----.” These insults usually would be followed by laughter. The boys were slightly kinder to my face, calling me “giraffe.” But both hurt.

As much as I told myself not to let the comments affect me, they did. For some reason, the boys’ taunts bothered me even more than the girls’ comments. I knew girls could be competitive and catty, but it cut deep to feel that kind of rejection from the boys.

Shortly after my brother, Luke, turned four months old, the four of us moved into our own house. I hoped that having our own place might bring Dad and me closer, but things just kept getting worse.

Dad was working all the time now, and even when he was home, he wasn’t really present. His thoughts were constantly consumed by his job. We never went hunting anymore, and even when he took us to dinner or when we did something together as a family, he spent most of the time on his phone. I felt invisible.

Ironically, as Dad’s attention waned, the attention I received from everyone else—including older boys—increased. Toward the end of my eighth-grade year, I started filling out in all the right places, and people began noticing me as something other than “giraffe.”

That spring my mom sent pictures of me to various modeling companies in the area. The Envy Agency, one of the biggest modeling agencies in Las Vegas, expressed an interest and signed me to a contract. I was thrilled. Not only was this the second chance I’d been hoping for, but also I thought that if I could make it big as a model, it would prove something to all those people who had teased me at school. And on a deeper level, part of me dared to hope that this would help me regain my dad’s attention somehow.

Everything’s going to be different from now on, I promised myself.

I had no idea how prophetic that promise would be. But what never occurred to me at the time was that different doesn’t always mean better.

I began modeling almost every weekend in style shows at the famous Fashion Show Mall in Vegas. At fourteen, I definitely was one of the younger models with my agency, so they started building my portfolio with pictures that made me look older. They coated my face with makeup, giving my eyes a sultry, smoky look. I spent hours with a stylist until they were satisfied with my big, “sexy” hair. Finally, they dressed me in revealing clothes that would have been risqué for someone of any age, let alone a girl barely out of junior high.

I didn’t understand it at the time, but ultimately the modeling industry’s job is to sell sex. Even ads aimed at women featuring women tend to have a sexy edge to them, especially when it comes to fashion. Revealing outfits, provocative poses, seductive looks—it’s all part of the package. They’re selling the idea that men want to be with the models they see in those ads, and as a result, women want to be those models. The designers know it. The advertisers know it. The photographers know it.

It wouldn’t be long before I knew it too.

I’ll never forget my first photo shoot for Envy.

The photographer kept pushing me to strike more and more provocative poses. It didn’t matter to him that I’d just turned fourteen—in fact, I doubt he even knew how old I was. Between the hair, the makeup, and the outfit, I easily could have passed for eighteen—possibly even twenty. And that was how the industry worked: for all practical purposes, I was a mannequin the photographer could pose and contort however he wanted. In modeling, it’s not about the person in the image; it’s all about the image. The photographer wanted the perfect shot. And, anxious to please and to be accepted, I wanted to do everything just right.

The more the photographer encouraged me to play to the camera, the more I worked it. And I was surprisingly good at it.

As much as I regret it now, at the time I didn’t feel guilty about striking those provocative poses. I just saw it as part of the job. I heard the photographer tell me, “You’re so sexy. You’re so gorgeous,” enough times that eventually I started to believe him. After all the teasing I’d endured at school, it felt good to have someone compliment me on my looks. The more positive feedback I got, the more willing I was to push the envelope and make him happy. It was the beginning of a cycle that would end up consuming my life.

But for someone who wanted to get experience in the modeling world, the Fashion Show Mall was the ideal setting. I learned how to walk a runway, how to play to a crowd, and how to turn and move in a way that showed off the best features of a wide variety of clothes.

I also learned how to do wardrobe changes quickly. At the Mall the runway came up from underground, and the only place available to change was a small, boxed-in area with transparent walls—meaning no privacy. I didn’t even like changing into my PE clothes in the school locker room, and now I was expected to strip down in front of not only the other models, but the male security guards as well.

I quickly discovered that if I was going to make it as a model, I’d need to get over my shyness because there was no room for modesty or propriety backstage at a fashion show. This was new, uncomfortable territory for me, but I figured I had no other choice. At the time I didn’t have the perspective to understand that some things just aren’t worth compromising on.

It was my start down a very slippery slope.