Down the Rabbit Hole (31 page)

“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.”

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.

S
INCE 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 comes to us, so I really can't be seen with a guy in public. It sucks, but . . .” I trailed off and shrugged my shoulders.

Criss didn't miss a beat.

He immediately suggested CatHouse, which he described as really low-key, jumping at the opportunity to spend more time with me.

“Great,” I said, popping out of my chair. I had no idea what this place was, but I was eager to get out of the hotel room. If it was low-key, it worked for me. “Let me grab my purse.” I bounded into the bedroom to snatch my bag and check my makeup. Looking at myself in the reflection, I couldn't help but notice the big smile involuntarily plastered on my face.

Maybe this is exactly what I needed,
I thought,
just one night out. Maybe all of Hef's restrictions are just making me crazy and I'll feel better about him tomorrow.

Of course, Hef would be irate if he knew I was headed out for a night on the town with another man, but what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.
Nothing
was going to happen between Criss and me. Plus, paparazzi didn't really exist in Las Vegas—not like they did in L.A., at any rate. With all the strict gaming laws in Nevada, photographers couldn't be snapping away inside a casino. As long as we were discreet, I'd be fine.

The nightclub was small, dark, and intimate. Situated inside the Luxor, the boutique nightclub did feel surprisingly private, and I allowed myself to relax.

Criss asked if I would take a picture with the CatHouse girls, when a posse of uniformed women arrived at our table.

No harm in taking a photo with a couple of dancers,
I thought. CatHouse was a restaurant as well as a nightclub, so I didn't think the photo could be that incriminating should it get out.

Criss and I sat in a corner booth, ordered two glasses of red wine, and talked over the loud music for hours. We spoke about my relationship with Hef and how stifling it was. He confided in me that he started dating an 18-year-old girl who moved into his hotel suite and “won't move out,” as he put it. He told me he made a mistake getting together with her and was planning on breaking it off in the nicest way possible. The fact that he was dating someone 22 years younger than him, not to mention barely legal, grossed me out since it reminded me so much of the Hefner situation. However, Criss seemed so sincere when he told me that he felt like he'd made a mistake and was looking for someone different that I was willing to overlook the impression his dating situation had made on me. We talked a lot about his new show and the pressures he was under. After we ran out of things to say, he started laying it on unbelievably thick.

“Ya know,” Criss began, going into a bumbling speech about how he was looking for someone to have fun with . . . have fun with but to have a serious relationship with, he was quick to add after he noticed the look on my face.

I sat there quietly and let him continue as he stumbled all over his words while trying to share his feelings with me. I took his nervousness as a compliment—he seemed to be smitten with me.

He continued on about how he had worked for fifteen years to have his own live show and how it was finally becoming a reality. Between his TV show
Mindfreak
(which was in its fourth season at the time) and his over-the-top public performances (like being shackled underwater for 24 hours in Times Square) Criss was, at that time, one of the most well-known magicians in the world. He seemed so happy about the direction his life was going, telling me that things had been really crazy in the past, but now he could finally have a routine. He was locked into a major contract for the next 10 years, and he asked me if I knew how much he would be fined if he missed a single show. I shook my head as the new direction of the conversation reflected his more aggressive tone. He told me he would be fined $200,000. Criss was constantly peacocking around in diamonds and Rolls-Royces, bragging about his salary and never letting anyone forget how much he was “worth.” To be honest, I found it a little tacky. But at the end of the day I didn't care. I have no idea if that number he threw out was real or just his way of trying to impress me. At the time, I was just flattered that anyone cared about impressing me, period!

He softened his voice again and went on to say that he had two days off a week and that he needed someone who could plan fun things for him to do on his days off, someone who he could do those things with. It wasn't the most romantic advance ever made, but I couldn't help but be intrigued. Here was this adventurous guy, so full of life, who was looking for someone to be young and wild with.

He blurted out that he'd marry me right now when I didn't take the bait. I nearly spat out my drink. Was this guy serious? While he was laying it on so thick, I found him playful and entertaining and he was clearly dead set on making something happen between us.

“For publicity?” I said, calling him out on what I presumed was bullshit.

To be fair, I knew that Criss was used to women shamelessly throwing themselves at him, so I figured he didn't quite appreciate that I was simply interested in the novelty of hanging out with a guy who was closer to my own age for a night.

“No,” he shot back, feigning shock at the suggestion. “What I mean is . . .”

He began his spiel (one that I would come to know by heart): how he was ready for a family and for marriage, how hard he worked for 15 years to obtain “success,” how he had been “almost a train wreck” (referring to his slutty behavior, which he loved to remind me of, as if it were going to make me jealous or somehow grateful), and how he was locked into the routine of his new show,
BeLIEve.

While I spent much of the evening at CatHouse rolling my eyes, I also had a hard time containing my smile. Sure, Criss was a well-known player and he was coming on strong, but something about his story made sense. Maybe he
was
at a point where he was ready for a committed relationship. He was 40 years old and making some huge changes in his life, so it was possible. On the other hand, we had only just met, so the whole conversation seemed absurd, but it was fun for me to get swept away in the idea that he was so into me. It was something I needed to feel after years of Hef making me feel like a piece of dirt. And who cared if he was serious or not? I wasn't going to get with the guy anyway.