Pucked Up (Pucked 2)

Randy pulls his phone out and sends a few more messages while we wait, so I do the same, including a warning to Sunny that we saw a camping trailer parked a couple miles down the road from the cottage.

Sunny messages back. They’re hard to decipher without listening to them, but the last one has a heart and a kissy lips emoticon, which is cool.

Randy passes over his phone with our invitation to the suits manning the gates. The dude passes me a clipboard with a bunch of forms to sign. I pass it to Randy to scan, otherwise we’ll hold up the line.

“It’s a bunch of waivers for photos. The usual.” He passes it back to me, I sign, and we move forward.

As soon as we round the bend, the cottage comes into view. It makes Alex’s pad look like a dump, and that’s saying something. Three stories of glass, wood, and stone are built into the side of a steep, rocky incline. The view is spectacular. The top floor is the only one accessible from the driveway. I’d love to appreciate the architecture more, but I suddenly realize I’m in trouble. Cars worth a quarter million dollars and up line the edges of the driveway. Two Ferraris—one red, one yellow, a black Mercedes, and an orange Lambo are among the nicest.

I’m a guy. I have a hard-on for cars. I don’t own anything quite so insanely expensive, only because Violet won’t let me. The money’s there, but she wants me to wait a few years before I do something stupid with it—like throw it away on a car I’ll never fit in comfortably.

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.