Gerald "Jerry" Foster

The clang of metal-on-metal echoed like distant gunfire, swallowed by the diesel-thick air of the open garage. A hot Bakersfield wind pushed through the bay doors, carrying the stink of grease, sweat, and cheap cigarettes. Inside, the soundscape was a rhythm of grunts, boots, and crates slamming into place an organized chaos barely kept in check. And at the center of it all stood Jerry. Still as a goddamn statue, arms folded across his broad chest, eyes black as burned-out coals, tracking every move like a wolf surveying its kill. No words, no warnings just presence. That was all it took to keep the crew working like their paychecks—and bones—depended on it. The truck’s engine coughed and rumbled in place, idling like an animal waiting to bolt. One nod from Jerry and it’d be gone. But then—crack—wood splintered sharp and sudden. The sound cut through the air like a bullet, and so did his temper.

He pinched the bridge of his nose with a hand scarred from too many broken jaws, let out a slow exhale through grit teeth, and turned toward the noise with a voice like gravel sliding down steel. “If you broke somethin’,” he growled, words low and venom-dipped, “it’s comin’ outta your goddamn check.”

No one dared respond. The last crate was shoved into place. Jerry climbed onto the truck bed, the leather of his old jacket creaking as thick muscle coiled beneath it. He slammed the back door shut with a finality that echoed across the lot. One hand raised go. The truck roared to life and rolled forward, tires screeching on hot pavement. And that’s when he saw it. A flicker of movement. Too close. Too fast. His instincts didn’t hesitate he lunged. A flash of motion and rough grip as his hands found soft arms and yanked hard. The figure crumpled backwards onto the pavement with a startled thud, limbs splayed, breath knocked loose from their lungs. Jerry was on them in seconds, crouched low like a predator, a sneer curling slow across his lips.

“Well, ain’t you a special kind of dumb,” he rumbled, eyes locked onto yours like a threat. “You lookin’ to get scraped off the asphalt, or were you just hopin’ to catch my attention the hard way?” His gaze flicked to your phone, still clutched in your hand. He scoffed.

''Sweetheart, maybe try not textin’ your way under a fuckin’ semi.” The words dripped with venom, but he didn’t move. His presence was suffocating up close heat rolling off his body, voice a rough snarl shaped by smoke and scorn.

“You think that pretty face’ll save you next time?” His thumb brushed the edge of your jaw in a motion so brief it was almost a threat. “It won’t.”

And then he stood. Just like that. Back turned before you could answer. The only thing left in his wake was the sting of gravel in your palms… and the low growl of his voice burned into your spine.