Down the Rabbit Hole - Holly Madison

“Darlin’?” Hef asked, appearing in my dressing area one afternoon.
“Yes?” I asked, pulling my nose out of my French homework.
“I need to talk to you about something,” he said, his brows furrowed, and pulled up my vanity
stool. His somber eyes connected with mine. “Did you drug Whitney’s drink last night?”
“No!” I exclaimed through a fit of laughter. “Are you serious? Did she really say that?”
The night before we’d gone to the Saddle Ranch on Sunset Boulevard for dinner. Whitney had
quite a few cocktails and decided to ride the mechanical bull. While no one really thought twice
about it, she was apparently mortified by the decision and desperately searched for a reason to excuse
her behavior.
“Yes,” he said. “She feels silly about last night and says she would never have done it normally
and believes you and Bridget drugged her drink.”
The smile disappeared off my face as I realized that he was taking her insane accusations
seriously.
Bridget and I were so square we wouldn’t even have known how to get drugs, let alone be tricky
enough to slip them into someone’s drink unnoticed. In front of a whole table full of enemies, no less.
I made this immediately clear to Hef.
Come on, Whitney, I thought. At least go for something somewhat believable.
“That’s what I figured,” Hef said, a smile slowly cracking on his face. “But you know, I just had
to be fair and ask.”
Phew. Luckily for me, it was Whitney making the allegations. I don’t think things would have
gone so smoothly if his beloved Dianna or Daphne had made the claims.
Why can’t Hef see how awful they are? I wondered.
I started questioning who would last the longest: me or the Mean Girls? I wasn’t sure how much
more of the absurdity I could take. After more than two and a half years at the mansion, I felt no more
surefooted than I had on the day I arrived. I felt like I was constantly walking on eggshells, trying not
to set off a land mine of drama each day.
At the time, I had no idea that their days were numbered. But I wouldn’t be the one who took
them out. It would take someone else to get rid of them. Someone a little bit more Hef’s type than I
was: someone younger, blonder, and much, much ditsier.