Down the Rabbit Hole - Holly Madison

here smoking meth and it has this like, really foul smell, like rotten eggs, so they covered up the vent.”
I nodded again, hoping the shock and amusement wasn’t readable on my face.
“They knew if the smell made its way down to the butler’s pantry, someone might figure it out
and bust ’em,” she continued.
“Huh,” I said, going through a mental Rolodex of her girlfriends to figure out which ones she
was talking about.
“Speaking of the other girls . . .” Vicky began, a new focus in her voice. “You know I can’t stand
Dianna, right?”
“No, I didn’t,” I replied. How would I know who was on Vicky’s list of enemies?
At the ripe old age of 29, Dianna was one of the oldest in this new crop of girlfriends. She was
beautiful, but there was something a little off about her. She had wild, violent mood swings and
looked more like an attractive 40-something with a face full of Botox and fillers than a 29-year-old.
“Okay. Well, you know how when you do coke, there’s like a pile in the center with some lines
next to it for people to do?” She paused. It took me a second to realize she was waiting on me to
respond. Quickly I nodded. I didn’t do it myself, but I’d been offered cocaine countless times since
moving in—it was definitely the drug of choice among the girls of the mansion.
Apparently satisfied with my response, she continued: “Well, Dianna doesn’t do the lines . . .
she does the whole fucking pile!” Her eyes were wild as her arms flew in the air. “It’s like, bring
your own shit.”
I wondered if Vicky was high this very moment. It would explain her spastic behavior and even
why she invited me into her room in the first place.
“You know Amanda, that new Playmate?” she asked, jumping to the next subject without missing
a beat.
I actually had an answer for this one!
“Yes!” I exclaimed. I’d only met Amanda a handful of times while she was shooting her
pictorial, but the wholesome dark-haired beauty definitely left an impression. She possessed an air
about her, like she just walked off the pageant stage. I always noted her impeccable manners—a rarity
in the Playmate world. “I really like her. She’s so pretty and seems really classy.”
“Well, she’s not!” Vicky whirled around with a huff. Apparently that was the wrong answer,
because Vicky unleashed her Amanda-focused tirade. “You know, don’t you ever wonder, for a girl
to want to pose nude, there has to be something wrong with her, right?”
I kept my mouth shut. Her eyes narrowed on me as she waited for my response. It seemed like a
loaded question, since both Vicky and I were eager to become Playmates. I thought she might be
getting to some sort of point—perhaps whatever it was that motivated her to ask me to her room in the
first place.
“Well, she makes a lot of money,” Vicky finally said, her claws momentarily retracted. “Like,
thousands of dollars a night. Actually, almost all of the Playmates make that kind of money.”
Vicky paused, waiting for me to take the bait and ask how they made that kind of money. She
took a seat on top of what appeared to be a small mound of dirty clothes on the white couch and began
casually petting the tiny dog that had crawled into her lap. After it was clear I wasn’t biting, she