Down the Rabbit Hole - Holly Madison

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.”
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.
“Well, I gotta see that,” I joked, taking the obvious bait. Unlike the ultra-feminine, docile fembot
I was required to be as one of Hef’s girlfriends, with Criss I felt like I could be one of the guys. It
was a refreshing change of pace.
Criss asked me what I wanted to do next, his thick Long Island accent coating every syllable as
he examined his teeth in the reflection of his steak knife.
“Take me out!” I demanded playfully. I had one night away from the mansion and I didn’t want to
squander it sitting up in the hotel room, but we had to be careful. “I don’t know the city at all outside
the Palms. I just need to go somewhere low-key,” I explained. “Hef has really strict rules when it