Lenny

I put my clothes on the best I could and staggered out the door to his Alpha Romeo.

I tried to nap in the car. When the car stopped, I opened my eyes and saw that we were parked in front of a huge house on a street full of big houses and manicured yards that were maintained by an army of mow-and-blow gardeners.

The realtor was waiting, a very professional lady in her forties. She looked like a woman who had been a high school student body president, married too young, had two children, and got divorced. Now, she was a successful businesswoman.

She was standing next to a Lexus, wearing a red business suit with a bunch of papers under one arm and the other arm stretched out to shake Lenny's hand.

Lenny didn't bother to introduce me, and I wonder what the realtor thought, what with me half asleep and my hair mussed up, looking like I had just been fucked good.

She sure as hell knew I wasn't Lenny's wife because she didn't waste any time trying to persuade me that this was the house of my dreams—even though it was.

The rooms were enormous, with high ceilings and walls looking like they had been painted yesterday. The master bathroom was twice as big as the friggin bedrooms at the grove house—and four times nicer. Double sinks. His-and-hers toilets. A Jacuzzi. A shower with only three sides. Mirrors everywhere.

Lenny asked lots of questions and walked through the house several times. The realtor picked up the scent of a sale and moved in for the kill, yapping away about the neighborhood, the resale value, and a bunch of other stuff I couldn't really hear. She was a fucking barracuda.

I bet she chewed up her sex partners and spit them out when she was done.