The next morning, there was a knock on my door. It was six-thirty. What the f**k? Guff was sleeping in my bed because there was no way he’d fit on my couch, which was where I’d spent the night. s**t, there was a kink in my back.
I stood, scratching my chest while I grabbed my gun from the drawer underneath the lamp. Yawning, I walked toward the front door and looked through the peephole. Scowling, I yanked open the door, gun at my side, pointed at the ground.
“What do you want?” I said none-too-friendly to Jackson, who was standing on my doorstep, trying to look sheepish.
He sniffed. “Have you brushed your teeth yet?”
“Hadn’t planned on it. I’m going back to bed after I get rid of your sorry, thankless ass.”
“Come on, Jer.” Was that a whine? “Don’t be like this. We’re sorry, alright?
