Love Him Free: Book One of On The Market

by Lindsey, E. M.

  Birdie eyes were soft, sympathetic and maybe a little pitying, but Simon felt like maybe he deserved that. He was pathetic, after all. “I’d like to be friends.”

  Simon bit his lip, then nodded and extended his hand. “Friends is…good. I think I can do that. Just don’t get your hopes up for me being any good at it.”

  For the work he did with his hands, Birdie’s palm was surprisingly soft and cool. “Just be you, man.”

  Simon withdrew and dragged a hand through his hair. “I accept your apology. I also need to get back to work since I close at four today.”

  “For a date?” Birdie pressed.

  Simon felt his entire body go hot. “No.” Which wasn’t entirely the truth. He would be keeping the Shabbat, but he wouldn’t be doing it alone tonight. He just wasn’t ready to share that with anyone—even a new, self-professed friend. “Not a date. But um…thanks for signing with Rocco. He says it’s fine when people don’t, but I know having someone use ASL helps.”

  Birdie shrugged. “My skills aren’t what they should be, but I’m happy to practice. Maybe we can all get together for drinks or something.”

  “I’ll ask him,” was the most Simon was willing to concede right then.

  He had a lot to think about—not just the videos with Rocco, but everything Collin had said. How it was okay to just know when someone was right for you. How it was okay to not be…normal, the way everyone else was. How therapy wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world—and what he hadn’t said. How being a little bit broken didn’t mean he wasn’t worth loving.

  When Birdie was gone, Simon contemplated just giving up—locking up shop and going upstairs and waiting for Rocco to get back. But he glanced behind him then, at the photo of Bubbe smiling between him and Levi when they weren’t quite old enough to understand what this bakery might mean to them one day, and he knew. He knew it was coming to a close—and he accepted that—but he wasn’t ready to hit the end on their legacy just yet.

  Chapter Eleven

  Of all the things Rocco thought he’d be doing when he got to Cherry Creek, none of them involved perusing vacation rentals so he could film a series of amateur porn videos where he made his little baker friend on Twitter come without touching his dick. And Rocco had also started to believe that nothing could get him really and truly worked up again. A person, yes. He had been wildly attracted to Eric on and off during their relationship. The softest, quietest, most vanilla love-making between them had often been the most erotic sex he experienced.

  But this thing with Simon? It was everything. Knowing that he could get Simon off by a few quiet words and the drag of fingertips along his neck made him wild with power and want, but he acknowledged the voice deep inside him that told him he wouldn’t feel this way if it had been anyone else but Simon.

  In truth, he could lay Simon down and fuck him missionary style and he’d still be out of his mind with desire. He could lay him out, strip him, and tie him up before fucking his throat with long strokes of his cock and he’d get off just as hard as if Simon was on all fours, doing little more than spreading his thighs for Rocco.

  It was the man. It was the man, with his curls, paint-splatter freckles, soft belly, and slightly crooked smile. It was the man who didn’t like himself much, but wanted to—and Rocco knew he wouldn’t rest until Simon freed himself from the belief that he wasn’t worth any of this.

  Rocco would burn his life to the ground if it meant keeping Simon in it, and he had never felt like that before. Not even with Eric—not for a single moment they had been together. Rocco had once thought about marrying Eric too. He had thought about just making it official and choosing to spend the rest of his life with that man, but that seemed such an absurd, far-off idea now.

  He almost wanted to send Xander a thank you note for being the piece of shit who had been sneaking around with Eric behind his back.

  It was with that smile he walked into the lawyer’s office which sat next to the newspaper, and offered over a hand-written note and a blank check.

  I’d like to make an appointment and pay for a retainer in order to draw up a contract.

  The secretary looked like she was a hundred years old. Her arthritis-bent fingers took the note, eyes squinting behind her bifocals. Her lips moved, and he knew she was speaking, so he waved at her to get her attention, then signed, ‘I’m deaf.’

  It was not necessarily a universal sign, but even a person with almost no ASL usually got the gist. She stared at him a long second, then started to speak again.

  “I’m deaf,” he said aloud.

  Her brows furrowed, and her finger pointed toward the door, lips flapping. He had a feeling she was dismissing him, and his anger started to rise before the door behind her desk opened and a man walked out. He looked a lot younger than Rocco—maybe late twenties, and a little nervous and harried. His hair was light brown, skin pale, fingers soft when he extended his hand and Rocco took it.

  The man said something that looked like, “Right this way,” and the beckoning gesture was enough for him to trust it.

  He passed the old lady and moved into the office, finding it cozy and warm with mahogany furniture and leather sitting chairs. The man gestured to them, and Rocco got situated while he moved behind the desk, then pulled out a yellow legal pad and began to write.

  ‘Do you have an interpreter?’

  Rocco didn’t really expect the sharp twinge in his chest at the loss—not of Eric, but of communication. Of how Eric ruined everything—of his own part for not following his own damn rules about relationships with his interpreters.

  ‘No. I’m not a resident in town, I’m staying at the Lodge. I need help with a contract though.’

  The man’s eyes scanned the note, then he wrote again. ‘My name is Joe Garcia, and I’m familiar with some contracts, but I’m a family attorney.’

  Rocco knew that. He’d looked the office up online—the only one within a fifty-mile radius. He knew it was a crapshoot, but he had to try. ‘I’m aware of that. The contract is simple. I need something to ensure that a video that will go up for sale will be the sole financial property of my co-star.’

  Rocco didn’t write porn, but he saw when the meaning of video hit Joe Garcia. A faint sheen of sweat broke out on his brow, and he licked his lips three times before he wrote again. ‘I don’t know how well it would hold up in court.’

  ‘It will be enough for now. It’s for his peace of mind. I have a personal attorney and he can sort out something more permanent later.’

  Joe drummed his fingers on the desk, and Rocco absently touched the wood to feel the rhythm of it. ‘Okay. Can you come back at three? I’ll need legal names, the name of the company that will release the video, and the basic terms of the contract.’

  Rocco didn’t know why this gave him such a thrill—but he could guess. This would make money. This would make Simon a lot of money, even before other people realized it was Rocco who was starring opposite him. Viewers lapped stuff like this up like it was his actual come. But apart from that, apart from knowing it would pull Simon out of debt and give him something to lean on when his bakery closed, it was also a fuck-you to Xander and Eric. It was double middle fingers to the way they tried to cuckhold him and corner him and take away his ability to do anything without giving over pieces of his work.

  As long as he wasn’t getting paid—and he didn’t need to be paid—they couldn’t touch him. In these videos, he wouldn’t be Sylent. He would be Rocco Moretti—he would be lying with his boyfriend, faces obscured, and his hands would get him off. Over. And over. And over.

  Until Simon was free.

  The pen flew across the page, and Rocco eventually had it all down. He watched Joe’s eyes move over the names, and when they didn’t flare with any sort of recognition or judgement—at least, no more than a normal small-town prude would, he felt safe that Simon’s reputation wasn’t being completely tarnished.

  “Do you need anything else?” he asked.

&nbs
p; Joe jumped at the sound of his voice, and Rocco tried not to scowl as he watched him write again. ‘This should be enough. Leave your number and I can call you when it’s ready.’

  Rocco read the words, then lifted a brow as he tapped on the word ‘call’.

  With a flush, Joe scribbled it out. ‘Text. Sorry. I’ll text.’

  Rocco nodded, then shook his hand, then got the amount for the meeting and the services, scribbling the number on the check before passing it over. Joe took it and slipped it into his drawer, then showed Rocco to the door.

  He was annoyed Joe hadn’t apologized for his secretary, but he was walking on air that things were happening. He felt like a kid again—like a student exploring the dark edges of himself he hadn’t realized were there. But this time, instead of freedom from expectation and family, he was touching the freedom to love. Real and true love—not the bullshit, superficial obligation that came with Eric.

  And god, it was fucking beautiful.

  * * *

  Once he was done with the lawyer, it took Rocco only a short while to find a place to rent once he’d gotten someone to reply to his email inquiries. He found several empty vacation rentals listed, and the one he’d chosen was a small little European style cottage with a thatched roof and picket fence. It smelled a little stale, and there was a draft coming from somewhere in the house he couldn’t identify, but it was far enough from either neighbor that if he wanted to make Simon scream, he wouldn’t have to worry about complaints to the owner or calls to the police.

  There were three bedrooms, and they were all very nondescript—a typical B&B style lay-out with a poster bed and floral covers. He liked that there were no stairs, and he liked that there was a swing on the back porch which they could use in the mornings—if Simon truly wanted to stay with him for more than just their arrangement.

  James nipped at his heels as the realtor started reading over the documents, so Rocco motioned that he was heading outside, and he unclipped his baby and let him run off into a short grove of trees to finish his business. The sun was low in the sky—closer to dusk than not, and Simon would be expecting him soon.

  Rocco was due to spend the night over at Simon’s. He didn’t entirely understand the whole Shabbat thing, though he’d spent an hour on his phone looking up the rituals and it seemed needlessly complicated. The last religious thing he’d ever participated in was his cousin’s baptism which was an eternally long Mass, then a garden party at his aunt’s which went late into the night. It had devolved from tea and cress sandwiches to his mom throwing together pasta and everyone drinking out his uncle’s wine cellar.

  Apart from the big holidays, weddings, confirmations—his family didn’t do much in the way of God or belief. The idea that Simon was so dedicated to his faith—that he lived every day in constant adherence to it, at least as much as he could—it was fascinating. It was also a little bit sexy, Rocco thought. Simon was nervous, and he was anxious, but beneath that was an underlying current of intense passion.

  It ripped through him at any given moment, at any brush of Rocco’s hands, or whisper of his voice. And as much as Rocco wanted to believe it was all him—and he would take credit for some—he knew so much of it was just Simon. It was just the pieces of him he’d been neglecting for so long, but still existed. These pieces were clawing their way out now, though, and Rocco was overwhelmed by the beauty of it. Watching Simon fall apart—and more than that, watching him give in to the freedom of losing control—there were no words to describe it in either of his languages.

  James came trotting back after a moment, and Rocco lifted him to his face, rubbing his nose through soft fur. He felt the pup’s chest vibrate with his little bark, and pulled back for a few kisses. He knew he was a bit of a diva, knew he was a spoiled pain in the ass sort of rich actor with his pocket dog and sports car. He had never been ashamed of it—but now he felt like maybe he was something a little more. He’d be seeing his lover soon—his lover, and god how that thrilled him.

  When Rocco and James walked back in, Jack was finished with the lease agreement, and tucked the check away in his pocket before handing off the keys. Rocco had a feeling once Jack had looked him up, he hadn’t bothered with his references. Or, if he had, it was simply to say he was able to speak to a few of the top adult film stars in the industry. Rocco would use whatever he could to get his way—unashamedly. He wanted this for Simon. This wasn’t just for himself.

  Tucking the key for the lock of their new sanctuary in his pocket, Rocco got into the car and shot Simon a text, letting him know he was on his way. He’d been instructed to bring dinner—something that didn’t mix dairy or meat, and no pork. That was easier said than done when his first instinct was a creamy carbonara—or even a pizza. But there was Greek nearby, and he loaded up on shawarma and falafel and dolma.

  The spices infiltrated his car. James looked far too interested, but rode obediently on the edge of the passenger seat, only perking up when Rocco pulled into the spot near Simon’s car and turned the engine off. He probably had too much with him, but for now he grabbed the food, the dog, and James’ little suitcase with all of his things.

  Simon: It’s sunset, and I’ve already lit the candles. Go ahead and let yourself in.

  Rocco, after all his study, had some idea what this meant. It meant Simon wouldn’t do a lot of things for himself—nothing that was considered work. It meant that Rocco could now exist in his space and take care of him and fill the places Simon had left vacant until sunset tomorrow.

  He hitched James up close to his chest, balancing the food in one hand, then ascended the stairs and went inside. It was dimly lit, the only light from the kitchen and from two candles burning on the table. Simon was on the sofa, and he was smiling at the sight of Rocco, though he didn’t get up.

  ‘You can turn the lights on if you want,’ Simon told him.

  Rocco set James down who hurried over for some love, and his heart went soft as Simon picked up the dog and cuddled him close. ‘It’s romantic like this.’

  He saw Simon laugh as Rocco eased down next to him and set the food on the table. ‘It isn’t supposed to be romantic. I always forget to turn enough lights on.’ Simon eased back, not in a hurry to eat—which was fine. Rocco wasn’t ready yet. He just wanted to bask in Simon’s presence for a while. ‘When Levi gets mad at me, he turns all the lights off.’

  Rocco’s brow furrowed. ‘That’s cruel.’

  Simon shrugged. ‘I think I deserve it. I was hard on him about not practicing.’

  Shaking his head, Rocco turned more toward him. ‘Taking advantage of your…I don’t know what you call it. Dedication?’

  ‘Observance,’ Simon spelled.

  Rocco nodded. ‘You can’t turn the lights back on. It’s cruel.’

  Simon’s face fell a little, the lights in his eyes dimming. Rocco could tell he was approaching a line, if not crossing it. ‘Levi can be mean. I love him, but he will use what he knows hurts you most to lash out. He’s always been like that. He spent his whole life wanting to come first, wanting what I had—memories of our mother, the attention from our grandmother. I don’t think he knew what it cost me.’

  Rocco watched Simon’s face as he signed, the way he half moved his lips around some words, the way he fumbled and spelled a lot, but made it so easy for Rocco to just understand him. ‘Did you ever tell him?’

  Simon shook his head. ‘I didn’t want to ruin what he knew—what he thought he knew. My mother was not well, and she was not kind. She hated Levi because he looked like my dad, but she hated me more because I wasn’t enough to make the pain go away. She’d go out and get drunk, then spend hours telling me how terrible her life was here. I wanted to fix it for her—so badly. I wanted to make the pain stop, but I think she wanted to die miserable.’

  Rocco reached over and cupped Simon’s cheek, brushing his thumb over cool skin. Simon turned his head and kissed Rocco’s fingers. ‘You deserved better.’

  ‘Levi and I both d
id. Bubbe didn’t know what to do with me, so she just—she fed me and comforted me. She tried to soothe my worries by sheltering me. That just made it worse. I felt normal in college for a little while but…’ Simon’s fingers hovered halfway through the sign, then dropped.

  Rocco felt his heart twist. He wanted to shake Simon’s brother a little bit, force him to look beyond his own nose and his own heart to see what Simon had done for him. But a part of him also knew that Simon hadn’t done his part in giving Levi the opportunity to know what he was going through.

  Being the baby of his family, Rocco had been sheltered from the worst of what life could throw. If his parents didn’t step in, then his brothers or sisters would. Simon was complicated and his past was so different than what Rocco had ever known.

  ‘Do you want to eat?’ Rocco asked.

  Simon laughed, then eased James off him and sat up. ‘Yes. Can you unwrap it all?’

  Rocco had no trouble doing that. In fact, he wanted to do more. He wanted to cup his hands around Simon and protect him from anything else that might dig in claws, and leave behind scars. He knew he couldn’t, not entirely, but he could still cushion the way down from every fall. If Simon would let him.

  * * *

  It wasn’t Simon’s first Shabbat with company. Bubbe had always made it fun—even with a reluctant Levi who even at such an early age had started to push at the confines of their religion. When he was scolded, he’d shuffle into the bathroom and slam the door, flicking the lights on and off until Bubbe put him in his room.

  When Simon returned from school, he tried to enforce it, but Levi would simply stare at Simon, then stride out the door and let it close behind him. Simon didn’t give up immediately, but when he realized what Levi was doing—forcing him to make a choice between keeping and breaking the Shabbat, he gave up. He wasn’t going to force Levi to observe—to believe, to even care—if he didn’t want to. Levi’s identity as a Jewish man didn’t rest on how he practiced. He was no less than Simon.