I called the number Ross had given me after the studio session was completed. As I waited for the receiving end to pick up, I hummed the theme. I stopped when a smoky, raw but very female voice picked up with a soft ‘hello?'

"Hello, is this the Forester residence?" I asked.

"Yes, this is Sofia Forester. Who is calling?"
Sofia... oh shit! Ross's mother! I almost hung up.

"H...hi, t... this is Norcross. I mean Mark."
I said it as if she should know who I was and I closed my eyes as I stammered my way into this fiasco.

"But of course you are," she answered, sounding amused. "And ‘Norcross I mean Mark', what can I do for you?"

"I'm sorry, can I start again?"
The laughter coming from the receiver sounded very infectious and she told me to give it my best shot.
"My name is Mark Norcross and I'm calling to leave an address with you. Ross asked me to do so."

"I see. Ross is not available right now," she answered.

"I know. He asked me to call this number and give the address..."

"Let me get a pen."
She returned to the phone half a minute later.
"All set; let's hear it."
I gave her my address. She repeated it and I confirmed.
"Now tell me; when did you talk to my son?"

"I'm sorry... I..."

"You said that you knew he wasn't available, so you have spoken to him. How? When?"

"About half an hour ago," I answered. "He was here."

"I'm not a mind-reader, dear ‘Norcross I mean Mark', and my homing senses are currently switched off. Where is ‘here'?"
Sheez, I was making a good impression here. Thank god she didn't know who I was.

"At the studio. We're recording some music for a project."

"Oh I see. You're an employee?"

"Yes, sort of..."

"Very well, I will make sure he gets it."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."
With those last words she hung up, leaving me standing there, staring at the horn. I slowly put it back and left the studio to go back to the office.

**********

It was a little after six-thirty when I came home, and I dumped my stuff on the floor. I'd been lucky, three years ago, to get this loft, which belonged to an uncle of mine. You could only reach it by taking an old elevator, one of those where you still had to lift up a rattling, squeaky door to get in, because the stairs only went up to the fourth floor. My loft was on the fifth.

It was a 1000 square feet, had hardwood floors, 14 ft ceilings, 6 ft windows (five of them), one bedroom, which was located above the recently installed new kitchen and the best of all; access to the roof. I spent many a night up there, reading or working, writing music. I write most of that by hand and then try it on a keyboard I have in the living room or use programs on the computer.

The staircase leading up to the bedroom was right smack in the middle of the living room. Once in the bedroom, you could look down into the living room; the entire wall had been broken out and replaced by a balustrade. I also had a bathroom up there with an old, big tub. The whole thing would cost me a small fortune if my uncle asked me the full price for it but I only paid half, or less; $750, all-in. Not bad, I'd say, especially for a kid of just twenty one years old, back then.

I went to the kitchen to get a drink and then went up to change into something more comfortable; very old jeans and a black The Sisters of Mercy T-shirt with red text saying "Fuck Me And Marry Me Young" on the back. Yeah, I know... but it freaks out my mom whenever I wear it and that's reason enough for me to put it on. You should've heard her when I wore it to school. Well, I didn't actually wear it in plain sight, but her thinking that I did was enough to crack anyone up.

I was just coming down the stairs when a knock on the door announced my mom (she had a key for the front door downstairs) and I pulled the door sideways to let her in.

"Hey babes," she said, kissing me on the cheek.
Then she stormed in further, carrying a load of shopping bags which she unceremoniously dumped on the floor.
"I don't have a lot of time; I have to get back to the diner by eight."

She babbled on and on in her usual way fast way as she went upstairs, half listening to the answers I gave about the prior week and the trip to Aspen. Meanwhile, she dumped the entire contents of my backpack on the floor and started sorting. I had kept them in the backpack, the dirty stuff in a plastic bin bag. When she had it all sorted she asked me if I had any more, and I pointed to the hamper, which she emptied as well.

"Now pay attention, okay?" she said, throwing whites into the machine first. "It's not rocket science. Turn this knob to here, then press this button. Put in detergent, not too much. No, no fabric softener, you'll scratch yourself to death. Alright, close the door. Now push ‘start'. There, that's all. See? You just have to get used to the machine."

I'd bought the new machine a few days before the trip but hadn't actually used the thing yet. Previously I just threw all my stuff into a plastic bag and went over to my mom's and she'd do them. But she had gotten it into her head that I needed to learn it and told me to buy my own machine. I guess she was right but it was handy, the arrangement we had. She smiled at me when I looked at the machine curiously as it took on water and started to churn, and she shook her head.

"You write the most beautiful music, read music notes better than words, but here you are, amazed at a machine that gives you clean clothes in an hour. I see you bought a dryer as well. Is it all hooked up?"
I nodded. I had the whole shebang installed.

"Good. When it's done, you'll hear a beep. Then it's safe to take your crap out of there, dump it in the dryer. I'll stay until this run is done, show you how. Then you're on your own. So, tell me," she babbled on as we moved back downstairs, "did you ski a lot?"

"Yeah, I'm a pro now," I replied, sarcastically. "I'm going for the Olympics in two years."
It earned me a soft slap on the back of my head. I made coffee and we sat in the kitchen, talking, catching up.

She told me about stuff going on at the diner, which she owned for... what was it... fifteen years now? Before that, she had worked there for another five; I spent half my childhood underneath the tables there. She had taken it over from the couple that retired and had moved to Florida. When the machine upstairs beeped, we went back up and she showed me how the dryer worked. Compared to the washing machine, that thing was easy. She made me fill the machine again, this time not helping but just watching and when I had done it right, she applauded sarcastically.

"Great, now you know how it works. Call me if you're not sure which colors can go togeth... oh, for god sakes, you're gay. You know which colors go together best."
I grinned and we started to go back downstairs when the intercom buzzed. I felt a knot begin to form in my stomach as she frowned at me.

"You expecting company?" she asked as I pressed the release button to let Ross in.
I blocked the view-screen from her when she tried to see who it was.

"Yeah... mom... ehm... could you try to be less ehm... ‘you' for a while when he gets here? It's kinda important."
She gave me an exasperated look.

"What, have I ever embarrassed you before, when you brought home a ‘friend'?" she asked, seemingly insulted.
Yeah, right; was the Pope a catholic?
"I never gave you any grief about anything. I'm a cool mom. Ask your friends. That shirt, though..."

"Yeah mom, I'll never forget how you told my first ever boyfriend that if he hadn't brought rubbers, he should feel free to use some of yours. Very cool."

"Many parents, and especially to gay children, are not as open minded as I am," she shot back. "You should be glad to have a mom like me!"

"Open minded is fine, but not on a first date!"
We kept bickering back and forth until the elevator audibly stopped on my floor. When a knock sounded on the door, I shot her a final warning look and she threw up her hands, mouthing ‘fine, I'll behave'.
Then I pulled the door sideways.

CHAPTER *16*

"Hi," I greeted Ross as he stepped forward, "come in."
He halted when he saw my mom and smiled.

"Good evening. You must be Mrs. Norcross?" he asked, extending a hand.

"Toriello, actually, Norcross is Mark's fathers' name," she said, sending me a grin from ear to ear. "For some reason he likes that better."
He shot her such a bright smile that I almost needed sunglasses. If he was still tired, I couldn't detect a trace of it. I closed the door, relieved that mom behaved. She had even managed to get rid of her gum, which she always incessantly, and audibly, chewed. I did not want to know where it had ended up.

"Please, call me Gloria," she said, motioning him to the couches. ‘Sit, sit, sit. Tell me about yourself."
He followed her and took off his leather jacket on the way, handing it to me and then sat down opposite her.

"I'm Ross. Ross Forester."

"Forester... Forester," she repeated, frowning.
Then her eyebrows rose up and she pointed at me.
"Forester as in Forester Group; who hired him?" she asked.
He nodded and she stared at him.
"Mansion up in Castle Pines Village; you're one of those Forrester's?"
I rolled my eyes and groaned inwardly but Ross simply nodded.

"One of those, yes."

"Oh my god, then you're loaded," she said, letting herself fall backwards into the couch.br> The way she was sitting, it wouldn't take a certified doctor to locate her spleen, for god sakes. She wore a skirt that even Julia Roberts would have declined in "Pretty Woman".

"Mom!" I hissed, causing her to give me a disturbed glance.
She made a dismissive gesture.

"Shut up, I'm trying to get to know my son-in-law."

"Mom!" I repeated a second time, while Ross laughed again.

"It's alright, Mark," he said, turning his head back to my mom. "Yes, we did pretty well."

"Pretty well? Your family is on the Forbes list."
I stared at him. I hadn't even known about that.
"You sure know how to pick em, kid," she said, shaking her head.
Then she regarded him for a little while, long enough to manage it so that Ross started to become a little uncomfortable, his eyes flicking from her to me. He coughed.

"So tell me Ross; are you a top or a bottom? You look like a top but I'm always wrong about these things. It's when you play hubby in bed, right?"
I closed my eyes and hung my head, embarrassed to the core. I couldn't believe she had just said that. But Ross surprised me by replying without missing a beat.

"I'm a top, actually," he answered. "And yes, it's when you're the hubby."
My mom clapped her hands and laughed loudly.

"I knew it! See honey? I'm getting the hang of it."
I groaned loudly now and shot Ross a look that didn't promise much good.

"So tell me; you two already had sex yet, right? God, I can't even remember the last time I had any. The next guy I have it off with will need a pickaxe and a crowbar to break his way in."
At that, Ross gave a burst of laughter, shaking his head.
"So how was my boy; any good in the sack?"

"Oh, he was amazing," Ross answered, not in the least bit uncomfortable.
He sent me a wink and I groaned audibly.

"Just like his father," mom said, with a satisfied grin.
I just wanted the ground to open up and swallow me now.
"It was the only thing he was actually good at, Mark's father. Thank God my son takes after me. Is he any good at giving..."

"Okay mom, that's enough," I said, interrupting her before this would get any worse and jabbing my thumb at the door. "Time to go. You've done enough damage for one day."
She jumped up from the couch, extending her hand to Ross.

"Well, I'm off. I'm already late as it is. You two; don't do anything I would do," she joked, winking at Ross.
He shot her another bright smile as he shook her hand.

"Sorry, but I can't promise you that."

"Good."
Then she got up to her toes and whispered loud enough for me to overhear
"The rubbers are in the left nightstand. But I'd check the expiration date before you suit up."
I didn't know where to look and grabbed her hand, dragging her to the door as she wobbled behind me.

"I can't believe you said that!" I hissed whispering. "You're doing this on purpose, aren't you? What is he supposed to think of me now?"

"That you practice safe sex?" she answered.
At the door she stopped me from pulling it sideways and turned my head her way when I refused to look at her. I felt so embarrassed.
"You are safe, right? With all these sicknesses going around..."

"Mom! Please... just go."
She kissed me on the cheek and patted my shoulder.
"You really need to lighten up, kid."

At that she finally left, leaving me staring after her. Then I closed the door and slowly walked back to the couches, where Ross had sat down again.

"She is... something else," he commented, shaking his head and still laughing.
His eyes were twinkling.

"Don't even start with me. ‘I'm a top, actually'?" I said, sending him a look of unbelief.
He simply laughed and winked.

"She tried to waltz over me; I didn't let her."
He had a point there. Still, I was positively embarrassed.

"I apologize for her behavior. Sometimes she just... she doesn't think before she says something."

"Sounds familiar," he replied, rising from the couch and coming towards me. "I love the shirt."
I felt a bit self-conscious and walked backwards, grinning at him while keeping the distance between us.

"You want coffee? I'll make some."
I went into the kitchen and opened some cabinets, looking for the coffee. Where the hell did I put it? My mind was a complete blank.

I finally found it just where it always is, and put it on the counter, reaching for two mugs, but Ross had followed me in there and blocked me from doing so. He set two hands on the counter, at either side of me, pinning me in place and turned me around.

"What are you doing?" I asked, my voice sounding a bit nervous.

"Saying hello," he answered, lowering his head.
His lips brushed against mine before he pressed them on my mouth and gave me a long, slow kiss.
He hummed satisfied when I opened my lips for his seducing tongue. When he finally lifted his head, the nervousness, at least, was gone.

‘Some hello," I said blushing, and he smiled, looking around.
I finished making coffee and handed a mug to him. He followed me back to the living room, where we sat down on the floor by the ‘salon' table; two large pieces of rough wood with a glass surface placed on top, allowing your legs to go underneath just barely.

"How did you get this place?" he asked.

"My uncle lived here but remarried some classy lady from New York," I answered. "My ‘aunt' didn't want to move here, so he moved there and asked me if I wanted to take over this place. I was looking around at the time and jumped at the chance."

"How much are you paying, if you don't mind me asking?" he asked.
I told him and he raised an eyebrow.

"Wow, no wonder you jumped at the chance. Normally, these lofts go for what... fifteen hundred, two thousand?"
I nodded, smiling.

"Yeah, I got real lucky."

"You could say that again," Ross agreed.

"So... you live up in Castle Pines Village?" I asked.
He nodded.

I've never been up there but apparently it was one of the most, if not the most exclusive park in Denver. I had heard some stories, over at FG, about the Forester house but always dismissed those as envious gossip.

"And yes, the stories you heard are true, mostly," he continued, grinning when he saw that I was about to ask him more.

"I didn't..."

"Sure you didn't," he said, winking. "I hear what goes around at the company, what I paid for it and such. So I thought it'd be better to just come out and say it; get it out of the way."

"Out of the way of what?" I asked, still trying to grasp the reality of it.
You read about stars in the newspapers or tabloids but you never expect to actually know someone who bought a place for that kind of money.

"Out of the way as in you not being intimidated by it; it's just a house, Mark."
I frowned.

"I know that. Why would I...?" I asked.
He sighed.

"Most people I meet are staring blindly at the money, the materialism that surrounds it. I'd like you to look beyond that and just see me for what I am; a simple guy who is rapidly falling for you."