But the cars aren’t where the trouble is. It’s what’s happening with the cars: bikini models drape themselves over the hoods, or the owners who stand with them, holding fake checks that represent donations. I can’t read the amounts from where I am, but based on the cars, they’ve gotta be significant.

One of the models saunters up to the hood of our car, a wet, soapy sponge in one hand, a half-full bucket of water in the other.

Randy and I look at each other. “Dude.”

I look anywhere but the hood of the car. “Is she topless?”

He glances back at the model. “It sure looks that way.” She dips her sponge into the bucket, then rubs it over her already soapy chest.

“We’re so fucked.”

Randy holds a fake smile as he gives the girl a thumbs up. “Maybe we should write a check and leave.”

I know things are bad if Randy’s making that suggestion. A photographer chases around after the model, snapping pictures. She rounds the passenger side, then stretches out over the hood. Holding the sponge above her chest, she squeezes, releasing a white, foamy spray that bounces off her boobs and lands on the hood and windshield. Then she rubs her chest all over the eagle. It’s a scene right out of a B-rated movie.

“I’m not so sure your bunny repellent is going to work,” Randy says as she comes around to my side of the car. She drops the sponge in the bucket and takes a towel from one of the men lining the driveway. Then she picks up a clipboard and a pen and struts over to my window.

I try not to look below her neck. It’s impossible. I’m relieved to find her bikini top is flesh-colored and blends in with her skin. Even after our talk yesterday and all the making up we’ve done, I don’t think Sunny would be cool with pictures of me and a topless model, despite it being a charity event.

The model leans on the side of the car. “Fun ride, boys! You can pull into that spot right there. Fill out this form with your donation amount, and we’ll get you set up so the girls can start washing. You’ve already signed the photo release form?”

“Yup. We’re all set.” I make sure I hold eye contact and don’t look down again.

She guides my car into a spot like she’s getting ready for a drag race. Her hair’s in a swishy ponytail.

“Did you know it was gonna be models?”

“Well, yeah, but I didn’t think it was gonna be like this.” Randy runs an anxious hand through his hair, messing with his dumb ponytail stub.

“What are you all worried about?”

“I don’t know. There’s a lot of girls.”

“This is usually your thing! No one said you had to fuck any of them.”

“Screw you, Miller. That’s not what I mean. It’s not gonna look good.”

“No shit.”

Now that we’re in, there doesn’t seem to be any way to get out, based on the insane line up of cars filtering in behind us. I assumed because it was a cause I could get behind, the event would be all civilized. I should’ve known better.

It’s like the set of a fucked up porno. The topless-looking models rub down the cars with soapy sponges, then rub their girls on the car so their boobs are covered in foam while professional photographers take their pictures. Apparently, a magazine is shooting their annual bikini model edition as part of the event. That would’ve been good to know. I scribble my way through another release and the donation form, while Randy does the same. I’m distracted by the way girls are hanging off the other donors while photographers snap pictures.

Randy leans over and checks out my papers while I flip to make sure I’ve signed in all the right places. “Miller, that’s—”

Another model sticks her head in the window. “All set?”

“Good to go.” I hand over my forms and pass her his as well.

“It’s good; don’t worry about it,” I tell Randy, who looks seriously stressed.

The model checks our information and gives us a megawatt smile. “I’ll be right back.”

“Sure.” I want to text Sunny and let her know I’m stuck and it’s not what it looks like, but I don’t have a chance. Models swarm the car. They hold open the doors; Randy and I have no choice but to get out. One of the girls passes us fake checks with our donation amounts on them. They prod Randy into a picture with me.

“Dude,” he hisses out of the corner of his mouth. “I would’ve bumped my donation amount if I’d known you were throwing in five grand.”

I meant to donate two. “Sorry, man. I flipped the numbers,” I whisper back.

Two other models—these ones are actually wearing normal bikini tops and daisy dukes—flank us, and two more drop into odd, contortion-y poses in front of us. The girls on either side put their hands on our shoulders and lean in, making kissy lips. I turn toward the model with the intention of protesting. Her lips are hot pink and half an inch away from mine—thanks to her monster heels—which is the exact moment the flash goes off. I’ve been here for less than five minutes, and already I’m screwed.

As soon as they’re done, I try to get my phone out of my pocket so I can warn Sunny, but the girls take our arms and usher us toward the house. I want to shake the bikini-model entourage, but I don’t want to be rude or attract any more attention. I let them guide me around the back of the mansion and up stone steps to a massive deck. It drops in tiers to a stone surround and an Olympic-sized pool. I’m not sure what the deal with the pool is since there’s a lake below us. It’s seems wasteful and excessive. Sunny wouldn’t approve.

Music blasts from the speakers, and more bikini-clad models with trays of drinks and appetizers strut around, posing every time they stop to offer a snack. I decline the booze. The whole scenario is exactly what I promised Sunny I would avoid. Unintentionally, Randy has screwed me again.

But I’m here, so I don’t mess around. I seek out the host, Gene. My intention is to chat with him about the business side of setting up a fundraiser—with less partial nudity—and make a plan to talk more at a later date, when he’s not hosting a party with hundreds of people. Then I need to find Randy, who’s nowhere to be seen, so we can get back to the cottage, and I can get back to Sunny.

I manage to find Gene and secure an introduction. He’s a big hockey fan, so we end up talking about the coming season and training for a bit. Then I get sucked into an hour-long conversation about endorsements, career longevity, and philanthropic pursuits. He’s business savvy. Apparently he knows all about my involvement with the summer camps, including the one I left yesterday. The interview I gave has already been printed in the local paper. It’s sitting on the coffee table in his living room, open to a picture of me with Michael and his family.

My phone buzzes in my pocket more than once while we’re talking. I can’t excuse myself, knowing this is an opportunity I’m not going to get again. After a while, Gene and I exchange contact information, which is exactly what I’d hoped would happen.

I’m searching for a way to end the conversation—dude is seriously chatty—when Randy finally shows up. He’s wearing a strange, fake-looking smile. Gene gives him one of those back-pat hugs and invites us to stay for dinner.

“We’d love to, but we’ve got to get back. Butterson’s girlfriend’s sick.” Randy’s still wearing that messed-up smile.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

I take the cue and stand. “She’ll be okay. I just don’t want to be gone too long.”

Gene nods and Randy ushers me out of the house, but it’s another half hour before we get back to the car with all the handshakes and conversations we’re forced into on the way.

“We gotta get back to the cottage now,” Randy says as he slides into the passenger seat.

I check my messages. I have tons of texts from Sunny and several from Violet. Reading them all is going to take forever. Based on Randy’s panicked expression, I shouldn’t be wasting time. I toss him my phone. “What’s going on? I need you to read those to me.”