“If you come back, you can stay in the mansion guesthouse away from the other girls,” I told her, hoping this would quiet her frayed nerves. They’d done quite a number on the poor girl! After some coaxing, I finally got Jessica to agree. I asked Hazel, the office administrator, to put Jessica on the guest schedule in one of the four rooms in the mansion’s guesthouse. After sorting out that potential disaster, I gave myself a well-deserved pat on the back.
Crisis averted, I thought.
When I arrived later that day to the Sunday night buffet, Hef was waiting for me in the dining room with a rabid look in his eyes.
“What are you doing putting Jessica in the guesthouse?” he demanded, his voice quaking with anger.
“She was having trouble with the other girls, so she left,” I calmly explained to him, hoping he would recognize the volume of my voice and aim to match it. The dining room was filled with guests and I didn’t want to get lambasted in front of an audience. “I needed her here for work first thing tomorrow, so I put her in the guesthouse. I guess the twins were picking on her, so I thought this was an easy fix.”
“That is not your decision,” Hef bellowed at me, with no intent to try to keep this argument private. “Daddy’s in charge of who stays where! Not you!”
“But it’s such a minor thing I didn’t even think you would want to be bothered with it,” I said truthfully. I’d invited girls to stay with us before and he never had a problem with it. I was completely caught off guard and could feel the tears start to burn my eyes. I took a deep breath and held them back with every ounce of dignity I had left. Trying desperately to keep my voice from shaking, I continued, “You have more important things to worry about.”
“Well, this isn’t your decision,” he spat at me. By now everyone was staring at us. “Daddy makes the rules.” When I didn’t respond, he turned to one of the guests and began jovial conversation as if nothing had happened.
I looked down at my lap. I couldn’t bear to make eye contact with anyone—I felt so humiliated. Despite his gentlemanly act, Hef had never been a progressive thinker when it came to women. I had always told myself that maybe I could change his attitude if he truly got to know me. It didn’t look like that was ever going to happen.
As we were getting ready for bed, Hef shuffled into my dressing area to inform me that our GND shooting schedule for the next day had been postponed.
Shit, I thought. After hustling to get Jessica back up here and getting the fear of God instilled in me for it, everything was being rescheduled.
“Why?” I asked.
“Something’s come up with Kendra that they want to shoot instead,” Hef managed, barely making eye contact with me. At that point, we all knew Kendra had one foot out the mansion gate and was in talks with E! for her own spin-off series. The producers were starting to put scenes into place that would set up her eventual exit.
Recently, Kendra and I had been getting along really well, but as I had a full-time real job with actual responsibilities, I wasn’t really thrilled about having to rearrange my work schedule for one of her last-minute whims.
“We always have to move stuff for Kendra,” I said, half joking, half hoping he would change the schedule back, while applying face lotion in the vanity mirror and mentally preparing to reorganize my entire workweek.
Hef stopped in his tracks and looked right at me.
“Stop being such a fucking CUNT!” he screamed, his face bloated and red with his hands clenched into fists.
My mouth fell open in disbelief. In seven years, I never once heard that word cross his lips. And now he wasn’t just saying it, he was calling me it . . . his girlfriend, the supposed “love of his life.” I sat there staring at him in total shock—unable to move a muscle or even cry.
After what felt like 30 long seconds of him glaring at me with his jaw clenched so hard, I thought he might crack his teeth, he stomped his foot like a child and scuffled back into the bedroom.
Over the years, I’d dealt with a lot: the Mean Girls, the crazy rules, the irrational outbursts, and the repugnant bedroom routine. Because Hef so convincingly wore his “Gentleman Hef” act at all other times, I was able to make excuses for him. But this was it; after being screamed at for no good reason twice in one day, I was freaked the hell out. There was no way I could fool myself into thinking Hef was a nice guy anymore.
In that moment, I didn’t care if I couldn’t find someone to love me outside of the mansion, because it was crystal clear no one on the inside loved me, either.
I needed to find someone to talk to, someone who could understand all the pressures I was under but wasn’t trapped in the same bubble as I was. Maybe I could get some advice and a fresh perspective. I eventually decided on one of Hef’s friends, since he knew Hef well and certainly understood the degree to which I was bound to the show.
“I can’t take it anymore,” I confided to him two days later. I sat down with my chosen confidant to discuss what had been going on in my private life. I was already in the midst of filming season five, but I felt like I couldn’t keep up the charade another minute.
Bridget had come in earlier and placed a box of Sprinkles cupcakes on the table. I cut myself a piece of one and passed the rest across the table.
“Just hang in there,” he said, unwrapping the rest of the cupcake. “He cares about you. He didn’t mean it.”
He paused for another moment, sensing this wasn’t giving me any comfort. Twisting up his face into a thoughtful expression, he said, “I’ll try to find out what’s bothering him.”
“It doesn’t matter if something’s wrong,” I said, trying to make sense of everything in my head. “This is just who he is and I am realizing it for the first time.” I sighed helplessly and put my head in my hands. My rope was rapidly fraying.
He then went on to remind me that Bridget and Kendra were leaving soon and that Girls Next Door would then be all about Hef, me, my work, and the girls that came through the studio. He honestly thought this would lift my spirits. I loved working on the show, but this wasn’t about the show . . . this was my life!
“Thanks for listening,” I said dismally.
I believed what he had said about the show. Not only was Kendra on her way out of the mansion, but Bridget had recently been offered her dream job hosting a show for the Travel Channel, so her departure was inevitable as well. Audiences and E! loved the episodes that focused on my work at the studio—and so did I! It seemed like all my dreams were coming true . . . but I had to ask myself: were those still my dreams?
I was finally seeing Hef’s true colors—and accepting that perhaps he had been that way all along. Now the promise of having Hef, the mansion, and the show all to myself just sounded frightening.
I didn’t know what to do next. Despite the way he treated his girlfriends, I felt guilty even thinking about leaving Hef. I was constantly being reminded of how blessed I was and how grateful I should be. I didn’t want to disappoint or let anyone down. What would his friends think? They’d always been so supportive of me because they saw that I treated Hef well. Would I lose my job? I loved my job and couldn’t bear the thought of losing it. Maybe I could find some way to stay on as an employee?
As all these questions were playing over and over in my head like a broken record, the time finally came to shoot the “good-bye” scene between me, Kendra, and Bridget. The scene was shot in Bridget’s room, which was filled with suitcases and rolling racks full of clothes for the new travel show she was leaving to do. As I was the only part of the trio who was supposed to be staying at the mansion, I just plopped myself on Bridget’s bed and waited for the others to talk. Most people who knew “Holly” from The Girls Next Door would have thought I’d be ecstatic to see Hef’s two other girlfriends go, but in reality, I was on the verge of tears. The feeling hit me like a ton of bricks. I don’t want to be here without Bridget and Kendra. At that moment I knew it for a fact, I just didn’t know how I was going to handle it.
&nb
sp; After more than four years together at the mansion, our little blond army was disbanding. We had each evolved so much in that time. Like the freckle-faced producer had suggested years before, Kendra really did grow up inside the mansion, but it seemed to be due largely in part to a man she had met outside the mansion. For eight months, Kendra had been secretly dating professional football player Hank Baskett and was madly in love. Gone was the insecure little girl who labeled Bridget and me the enemies and spent her days desperately jockeying for attention. In her place was a confident and gracious young woman.
Bridget was off to host her own show. I couldn’t think of a more perfect job for my best friend, who was packing up to travel the world! When I first met her, all she had wanted was to be a Playmate, and she ended up achieving so much more.
The scene couldn’t have been more genuinely emotional. I usually kept my feelings locked up far, far away from the cameras, but this time my tears flowed freely. It was in that moment that I realized how much these two women meant to me and how only the three of us could ever know what this wild ride we had been on was truly like.
It wasn’t just the prospect of losing my two costars that made me feel so empty. I knew that even when I was the only girlfriend, there would always be visiting Playmates and Bunny House residents to keep me company. It was seeing these other two women evolve, in just the ways they should be evolving, that made me realize that there was so much more out there for me, too. I didn’t know what it was, but something had to feel more genuine and fulfilling than simply being the “first lady” Stepford Wife of the Playboy Mansion.
After our teary hugs good-bye, the cameras stopped rolling and I slowly walked down the hall to the master bedroom’s back door. My mind was reeling, my heart was hurting, and my stomach was tied in knots. What was I going to do now? I knew I’d be heading to Vegas in a few weeks to finish the last shoot for Jessica’s pictorial. Maybe having some time away from the mansion, without the cameras following me, I’d actually have a chance to think . . . and Las Vegas seemed like a good place to clear my head.
CHAPTER 11
“Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.”
—Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking-Glass
Thank you,” Hef screamed so loud that my cell phone shook, “for giving me the WORST night of my life.”
Oh shit, I thought.
WE LANDED IN LAS Vegas early the previous morning for Jessica’s Playmate shoot. I thought the Playboy Club at the Palms could be a playful backdrop consistent with the 55th Anniversary theme. Knowing that the shoot would pull me out of Los Angeles for a day didn’t hurt, either. Jessica’s shoot was scheduled over two days, and of course, per the curfew, I had planned on flying back and forth each day. Obviously, this would have been exhaustingly impractical, and given the state of mind I was in, I decided to just take a chance and try and stay over. I really needed the time to myself.
“I really should stay overnight,” I told Hef. “It doesn’t make sense for me to fly all the way home, get only a few hours of sleep, then turn right back around and fly to Vegas the next morning.”
Given that my last attempt at spending an unchaperoned night away from the mansion—for Tiffany Fallon’s wedding—hadn’t gone over so well, I thought I was in for an uphill battle.
“Okay, darlin’,” Hef said casually—as casually as a normal boyfriend should respond to such an innocent request. “I’ll miss you.”
My shoulders melted away from my ears. Sweet relief.
“I’ll miss you too!” I replied.
A night alone! I thought, realizing I hadn’t had a night truly to myself since I moved into the mansion seven years earlier. After a full day on set, I was exhausted but still exhilarated at the idea of spending some time by myself in Las Vegas without the watchful mansion eye hovering over me. I was pleasantly surprised with how easy the conversation went—especially given the recent tensions between us—but Hef had an extremely selective memory. I guess the verbal beating he gave me was just another forgettable moment for him.
I desperately needed to get out that night and experience life as a normal 20-something before deciding if I was going to go back to Hef and settle down or break it off for good. I was like a bachelorette looking for her last hurrah or an Amish kid going out for Rumspringa. The only problem was, I didn’t have anyone to hang out with. Jessica and the photo staff were wiped out from the day’s shoot and all went to bed early. But more importantly, to make this night really matter, I needed to get away from Playboy people. The only friend I had in Las Vegas was Angel, but she was newly pregnant, so she was hardly up for a wild night on the town.
I guess I could text Criss, I thought. It was a dangerous option, but a tempting one.
Las Vegas magician Criss Angel had been jumping onto my radar for a while at that point. Bridget, Kendra, and I had been guest judges on a reality competition series he had been featured on. We met briefly backstage and he tossed some awkward pickup lines my way. Because I was one of Hugh Hefner’s girlfriends, guys didn’t usually have the gall to hit on me that blatantly, so I found his fumbled attempts strangely endearing, like a teenage boy tripping over his own feet. I remember thinking he was attractive—his style was reminiscent of the hair rockers from the ’80s that I thought were cute when I was a kid. He kind of looked like a poor man’s Tommy Lee.
I didn’t really think twice about his flirting until after the taping when Criss’s people contacted the Playboy publicity office to invite Bridget, Kendra, and me out to a club in Los Angeles. He was a notorious publicity-fueled womanizer (an A-list actress, a former child star, a famous heiress, and a post-mental breakdown pop princess were among his many conquests).
“No way!” I laughed into the phone line when Sally from publicity called me. “Is he crazy? We’re Hef’s girlfriends!”
“I know,” Sally giggled. “I just had to let you know.”
I wasn’t entirely sure which one of us he was after, but I couldn’t help but be flattered. He knew our position at the mansion and wanted to take the chance anyway.
Not long after our initial meeting, we were invited to be guests on yet another Criss Angel television series, Mindfreak. Unlike the talent competition series, Mindfreak centered on Criss’s day-to-day life as a street magician. Bridget and I accepted the offer and flew to Las Vegas for the day with a representative from Playboy PR (aka a chaperone). It was fun watching him on set. Unlike us, he had a say in what went on in front of cameras, as well as a producer role, which I found fascinating. Despite his mysterious on-camera persona, behind the scenes he was an easygoing jokester. In between setups, he invited us to join him and his usual entourage at his resident suite at the Luxor hotel (his friends referred to it as “the compound” behind his back).
I was charmed by the things that littered his suite: video games, a foosball table, and an intricate model train set. I wasn’t so charmed by the cheap plastic dry-erase board stuck to the back of his front door with the words “Britney was here! Spears” sprawled across the center in a drunken out-of-order scrawl.
We get it, I thought, laughing to myself. You banged Britney Spears.
It was all sort of obnoxious, but truth? It made me like him even more. I was so conditioned to the geriatric way of life at the mansion that Criss’s boyish hobbies seemed so different and refreshing to me. Though I had more in common with Hef, I was so oversaturated with his life and style at that point that I probably would have found any hobby besides dominoes attractive.
We shot our final scene at LAX nightclub inside the Luxor. Bridget and I were escorted to a large booth, already populated with pretty girls. Producers sat me next to a petite sexy brunette with sparkly, high-gloss lips.
“This is Monica,” Criss said as he introduced us. “She’s the main boxing ring girl.”
“Nice to meet you guys,” she managed through a false smile. “I just love Kendra! She’s the whole reason I like your show.”
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Wow, subtle, I thought.
It seemed to me that Monica was Criss’s flavor of the night. With puppy dog eyes, she had followed his every movement as he performed—and as she watched him, he was clearly watching me.
“To true love,” Criss toasted as he held up his shot glass filled with a sugary Washington Apple shot, somehow managing to split his gaze between Monica and me. It was a lame move to try to flirt with us both at the same time, but it just made me laugh. After all, I thought he was cute, but I wasn’t going to date him, so I didn’t waste my time feeling insulted. I could tell that Monica definitely thought something was up, though.
SINCE WE ALREADY HAD secured the Bachelorette Suite at the Palms—a 2,300-square-foot pink paradise (since rebranded as the “Hot Pink Suite”)—for part of Jessica’s shoot, I decided I should crash there for the night. Criss responded almost immediately to my text, saying he’d love to grab dinner with me after his rehearsals. He suggested N9NE, the steakhouse at the Palms.
Yeah, right, I thought. Criss and I were just friends, but the last thing I needed was a picture popping up online of the two of us having a “romantic” dinner together—or however the press might spin it. The massive suite had a fully decked out dining room, so I suggested that he come over and we order room service.
In between shoveling pieces of steak and plain baked potato in his mouth, Criss rattled on about how he had to eat healthy because he was practically naked in his new show.
Again, his thinly veiled attempts at baiting me couldn’t have been more transparent, but I was slowly becoming more and more charmed by him. I mean, I hadn’t flirted with a guy my own age since I was 21 (actually, Criss was 11 years older than me, but compared to Hef he felt like a contemporary). After years of believing no guy would ever want Hugh Hefner’s mistress, I was surprised that he actually seemed really into me. After all, he dropped whatever plans he might have had on a moment’s notice to hang out.
Down the Rabbit Hole: Curious Adventures and Cautionary Tales of a Former Playboy Bunny Page 22
