Izzy didn’t ask what that meant.
He didn’t want clarification.
The meeting lasted only a few more minutes. Nothing specific was said in front of him. Nothing graphic. Just implication.
When they stood to leave, Jenna looked satisfied.
Outside, she slipped her hand into his.
“I told you I’d handle it,” she said softly.
He kissed her automatically.
His mind was somewhere else.
By the time he reached his car, a quiet unease had settled in his stomach.
He told himself this would be pressure. A scare. Something controlled.
But as he drove toward Buck’s instead of home, a thought kept circling him—
He hadn’t been invited to stop anything.
He’d been invited to witness it.
Izzy learned early that nothing was permanent.
Not homes.
Not people.
Not promises.
His mother burned through whatever she touched—relationships, money, herself. Drugs came first. Always did. By the time Izzy was old enough to understand why men kept disappearing from their apartment, his father was already a story no one bothered finishing.
Foster care did the rest.
Group homes. Temporary beds. Rules that changed depending on who was in charge that week. He learned how to read people quickly—how to give them what they wanted so they’d leave him alone.
By his teens, he was already running errands for men who paid in cash and silence. Small deals at first. Then bigger ones. He wasn’t reckless—just visible enough to be useful.
Thetattoos came next.
Not for meaning.
For protection.
Ink made him look older. Harder. Untouchable. And in the circles, he moved in, that mattered. Artists liked him. Photographers noticed him. Someone mentioned his face once—strong jaw, sharp eyes, the kind of look that told a story without saying a word.
Modeling followed like an accident.
Streetwear brands. Underground campaigns. Nightlife flyers. He fit the image—danger wrapped in control. For a while, it worked. Money came easy. Doors opened without him having to knock.
Izzy loved the freedom.
No wife.
No kids.
