Down the Rabbit Hole (35 page)

Seized by an anger that was bubbling up inside me, I phoned the mansion to confront Hef about what he was saying about me behind my back. For years, Hef had maintained friendships, however superficial, with most all of his ex-girlfriends. I had expected to receive the same politically correct treatment and made sure that anything I said about Hef in the press was favorable and kind. For some reason, though, I seemed to be the first ex-girlfriend that he was going out of his way to poison.

“Hello?” Hef answered, not sounding particularly happy to hear from me.

“Hi,” I said and jumped in before he could stop me. “I've been told about all the things you've been saying about me and it's not right. I did my best to be the best possible girlfriend for seven years and . . .”

“Ha!” he shouted into the receiver, going on to accuse me of having had an agenda all along and reprimand me for not showing up at mansion events post-breakup.

“I wanted to give you your space!” I near screamed into the phone. “I'm not going to show up and push whoever you're seeing out of the way. I was never that kind of girlfriend. I'm not Tina. I'm not going to play that game.”

I was fuming. For so long I tried to be—had been, in fact—a model girlfriend, and here was Hef, characterizing me as if I were no better than all the two-faced manipulators he dated before me. I was just trying to move on and live my life, but my 80-something ex wouldn't stop talking smack about me to anyone who would listen. So much for exiting with any grace!

He could only respond by ranting about how much I had supposedly changed and what a different person I was.

He was right. I had changed—and in my opinion, it was for the better. And for the first time in a long time,
my
opinion was the one that mattered to me.

After that call, I quit my job at Studio West. While I adored my position and the people I worked with, staying felt awkward. I needed to leave
Playboy
totally behind me. Plus, I was no longer feeling challenged. Hef had very cookie-cutter preferences when it came to Playmate shoots and layouts, so it wasn't long before I could do the job in my sleep. I felt like I wasn't learning anything anymore.

Over the next year, I would routinely pick up the latest issue of
Playboy
to see the published pictorials. I was surprised to see the take on the Shannon twins in their pictorial. While the sunny, fresh-faced tennis-themed photos that I directed (the same shoot that was seen on
The Girls Next Door
) were still included, the rest of the pictorial had a distinctly different flavor. The girls had been styled as “Mansion Mistresses” lying on top of each other on a floatie in the mansion pool, one of them donning Hef's signature captain's hat, seductively straddling each other on Bridget's former bed and climbing the grand staircase in nothing but cheap, stripper-store rhinestone jewelry.

So much for the girl next door,
I thought. The title of our reality show was inspired by the way Hef described the ideal Playmate back in the '50s when he launched the magazine. Most women pictured in other publications of the era wore heavy makeup and very stylized hair. Hef wanted something different. He wanted his Playmates to look young and fresh-faced, not like “someone's older sister,” which was how he described the look of most models at the time.

Criss seemed absolutely thrilled that I had quit my job. He'd been pestering me to leave and insisted I use his publicity and management teams. Since Playboy PR had long ago started giving me the cold shoulder, I accepted.

Over the few months that I was with Criss, my heart would sink any time I would see magazine articles featuring Bridget and Kendra together. It seemed as if Playboy PR was still working for them, and suddenly the two girls were pushed like never before. I was never contacted to be a part of the photo spreads and interviews, though, and it hurt to be the only one left out. Despite the other two girls moving on to new men, I was the only one Hef was determined to punish. In the media, Hef would always say what a great girlfriend I had been and that I was welcome back in his life at any time (which would always send Criss into a fury), but in reality he wasn't being friendly towards me.

Criss's explosive temper was becoming increasingly more alarming. I didn't want to go back to the mansion, Criss knew that, but it was as if he couldn't help his jealousy. For all his fame, fortune, and success, Criss, to me, seemed cripplingly insecure.

This was starting to feel all too familiar.

Before I met Criss, I had seen his television show and thought he was cute. Had I dug a little deeper and done some research on the guy, perhaps I would have been more hesitant to get into a relationship with him.

According to reports in the press, earlier that year Criss had threatened
Las Vegas Review-Journal
columnist Norm Clarke in public, screaming, “Don't ever write another word about me or you'll need an eye patch over your other eye.” The confrontation was written about in the paper and online, but I wasn't aware of it until I had already started dating Criss. Many of his public rants, though, happened after I left him. Apparently, he singled Perez Hilton out in his audience one night and called him “the world's biggest douchebag asshole”; and magician Joe Monti filed a police report that alleged Criss “flipped out” and assaulted him. Monti produced an audiotape with a voice that is allegedly Criss's saying, “Get out of my place before I knock you out.” I wasn't surprised by any of it after what I had experienced.

In the beginning, any fame I had, Criss loved. That was what made our relationship such a publicity boon for him, after all. But as time went on, his jealousy seemed to get the best of him.

I remember him barking at me to cover up my hair as he yanked my hoodie over my head. He then went on to complain that my bright blond hair was attracting too much attention.

It was true. Even in his resident casino, people would often spot me before recognizing him.

After an amazing Elton John concert at Caesars Palace, we went backstage to say hello to the friendly pop legend. His dressing room walls were covered with shelves adorned with a massive bobblehead doll collection.

“You have my bobblehead!” I squealed, pointing at two of my dolls nestled in among the immense collection. I have to admit: it was a total fangirl moment. I mean, who doesn't love Elton John?! It was crazy, spotting my dolls in his dressing room.

Criss snapped that he had his own bobblehead coming out, shooting me a death glance.

Who gets jealous of their girlfriend like that?
I thought. We were supposed to be on the same team, but it was starting to feel more like we were in a one-sided “who is more famous” pissing contest.

Before my last trip back to Los Angeles, I told Criss I planned to stay an extra day to take my car to the shop so that I could have some repairs done. He threw a fit, accused me of not caring about him, and told me I should put my car in his warehouse.

Already Criss had suggested I begin storing my valuables in his safe—including my diamond watch and the two pieces of jewelry he'd already lavished on me. To me, my car was a reflection of my independence. It didn't feel right locking it away—and, honestly, Criss's apparent fascination with hoarding my valuables was beginning to make me uncomfortable. I canceled the car appointment and never mentioned it again—the last thing I wanted to do was put my car in his warehouse, and thankfully, I never did. Still, despite any trepidation that may have crept into my mind, I still wanted to believe we had a shot at making it together. It's easy to stand on the outside now and list the ways this relationship was clearly doomed, but I didn't have anything to compare it to. I had never been in a healthy, committed adult relationship before, so I didn't even know what was missing. With all my doubts, Criss seemed passionately in love with me and that was what mattered to me at that time.

The declarations of love from Criss flowed freely and he talked in front of his friends about wanting to settle down with me. He took me back home with him to Long Island to show me off to everyone he knew. As the holidays approached, I was treated like I was already a member of his family. Since we were both December babies, I began thinking ahead to our birthdays. Criss had already scheduled our joint birthday celebration to be held at his favorite night spot, LAX, but I also wanted to keep a tradition that I'd developed over the last several years: a trip to Disneyland with a group of friends. Near my birthday, Criss and I planned a day trip to the Magic Kingdom and invited my usual guest list, which included a few girls from the mansion.

As the day grew closer, my mansion “friends” suddenly became unavailable.

“You won't believe it,” said one of the girls who lived at the Bunny House. “Hef heard you were going to Disneyland for your birthday and decided to take his new girlfriends the same day you're going.”

Seriously?
I thought. Hef abandoned making the trek down to Anaheim years earlier. He suffered from chronic back pain, so having to walk more than a few steps at a time was incredibly uncomfortable for him. What are the chances that he all of sudden decided to go to Disneyland on the very same day I would be there celebrating my birthday? It was a pathetic attempt to get in my face and perhaps try to remind me of his earlier accusation: that the girls were my friends only as long as I was his girlfriend.

“I don't know what to do,” she grumbled. “He invited me to go with him and I feel like I can't say no because I live in his house. This is really awkward.”

Several of the girls called to explain that they wouldn't be going with either of us. It was obvious Hef was trying to force them to pick sides—and they didn't want to get involved.

If Hef wanted to go to Disneyland, that's fine,
I told myself. He wouldn't deter
my
birthday celebration. Criss and I ended up spending the afternoon by ourselves. I asked our tour guide to help keep me from running into Hef's group, which was also on a guided tour, which I'm sure soured Hef's plans of ruining my day and flaunting the guests he had ripped away from my celebration.

Despite the fact that we avoided Hef, it still wasn't the most relaxed day at the park. Criss spent the whole day trying to orchestrate “candid” paparazzi shots without seeming obvious, which I found embarrassing. I never mind having my photo taken, but I hated his sneaking around. The way he tried to hide his oh-so-obvious agenda from our tour guide made him look, to me, like a complete idiot. This was the first time I felt embarrassed to be with him, and it wouldn't be the last.

Back in Vegas, Criss and I filmed a TV segment together for a local New Year's Eve special. The bubbly reporter who interviewed us was very interested in the diamond ring that sparkled on my finger. It wasn't an engagement ring, but the large diamond birthday gift Criss bought me piqued the press's interest nonetheless.

For Criss's birthday, I wanted to get him something special. But what do you get the man who has everything—or at least could afford to buy himself anything he could ever want? I started reading interviews he had done online, hoping that it might offer me a clue or two.

Criss had told a reporter that he was a huge fan of Salvador Dalí. I'd never heard him mention art before, but why would he make something like that up? During one of my final trips to Los Angeles, I tracked down a rare Salvador Dalí print at a Beverly Hills gallery.

When I gave him the present, Criss tried to act impressed and thanked me vigorously, but didn't offer too much more. His manager, who was also in the room, seemed way more impressed than Criss.

Huh,
I thought.
Maybe he doesn't really care about art after all
. This was just one example of how the public Criss and the private Criss seemed like two very different people to me.

For Christmas, I played it a bit safer. Criss had mentioned wanting to shoot a snowboarding episode of
Mindfreak,
so I commissioned Burton to create a custom snowboard and snowboarding gear. Believe it or not, he actually had the gall to ask me if Burton did that for me for free. So much for its being the thought that counts! All Criss seemed to care about counting was pennies.

In return, Criss showered me with an audacious diamond cross necklace—making the previous pendant he bought me pale in comparison. He also presented me with another necklace, this one with a large diamond-encrusted infinity symbol pendant. On the back, next to the clasp, was a little charm that read, in tiny diamonds, “XO CA.”

Reading the huge smile on my face, Criss whispered that he had designed this especially for me and that he'd never designed jewelry for anyone before, not even his wife.

Criss had been married before, to his hometown sweetheart, but they filed for divorce after she learned that he had been spotted with an A-list movie actress. Criss never missed an opportunity to remind me of his high-profile conquests.

“Wow,” I exclaimed, truly breathless at these elaborate gifts. “I don't know what to say. I love them!” He picked me up in a huge hug.

No one had ever lavished me with such elaborate romantic gestures before. Even though Hef had dropped a few pieces of jewelry on me, they were always pieces of mass-produced Playboy-branded merchandise, made even less personal by the fact that identical pieces were given to his other girlfriends at the same time.

To me, it was the care that mattered . . . not the carats.

Criss offered to fly my parents to Las Vegas to celebrate the holidays with us. I was impressed and flattered that he showed such an active interest in getting to know my family, something Hef had never done.

“I think Holly should have her own perfume,” Criss told my parents one evening over dinner. “The slogan could be
Holly Madison: Bring Out the Bunny in You
.”