Love Him Free (On the Market #1) - E.M. Lindsey Page 0,48

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.

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