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.