The Colors Between Us
Kate Hawthorne
Copyright © 2018 Kate Hawthorne
Edited by: Jordan Buchanan
Cover Design: Amai Designs
All rights reserved. No part of this story may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the copyright holder, except in the case of brief quotations embodied within critical reviews and articles.
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not meant to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, persons, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers.
Contents
Preface
1. Dinner is a Disappointment
2. Shades of Blue
3. The Angry Twink Turtle
4. An Inspiring Fresh Start
5. Donny Makes a Bet
6. Water and Vodka
7. Not Even a Box of Baking Soda
8. Be Here For This
9. Roland Kissed Him Back
10. Roland Gives Donny More
11. Donny Sees Roland
12. Interfering. Meddling. Caring
13. Don't Fucking Mention It
14. Pete's Fine So It's Different
15. The Last Promise
16. Donny Gets To Decide What's Not Enough
17. The Taste of Vodka and Hope
18. Your Trust is Beautiful
19. Please Don't Move
20. It's A Little Early
21. Now You're Not Blue Anymore
22. It Doesn't Matter What I Called Him
23. How Do You Know Our Sweet Birthday Boy?
24. It Doesn't Mean Anything Now
25. There Is Nothing That Can Stop Me
26. All He Could See Was Roland
27. A Jumbled Mess Of Pieces
28. Just Roland
29. Explained In Color And Shape
30. More Than Empty Words
31. Create Something Beautiful With Me
32. It's Ours Now
33. A Perfect Match
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Kate Hawthorne
Preface
This book addresses what it’s like to live with depression and may be triggering for some readers.
If you are taking medication for depression, please do so as indicated by your healthcare professional.
Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration: 1-800-662-HELP
National Suicide Hotline: 1-800-273-TALK
Dedication
To you, for being so brilliantly him.
Chapter 1
Dinner is a Disappointment
This is not the best idea you’ve ever had, Adonis.
Donny took a deep breath, eyes wide as he stared across the table at blond-haired, blue-eyed Davis Harrington. On paper, Donny was certain Davis ticked all the boxes a prospective suitor should.
Good job? Check. Davis was an investment banker— he’d mentioned it no less than four times in the last half an hour.
Nice looks? Check. Davis’s hair looked like it would fly off his head if the wind blew hard enough— just the right combination of floofy and gelled to look like he hadn’t spent any time on it at all. Paired with a jawline that looked like it had been chiseled from marble and eyes as blue as the Pacific Ocean, Davis was set in the looks department. He even had an amazing voice—this beautiful, melodic baritone that sounded as thick and sweet as syrup.
All that aside, Donny was actually convinced Davis was a life-sucking demon who’d been sent to earth with the sole mission to bore unsuspecting twinks to death. Donny wasn’t sure what was going on with his sister’s friend Joel and his suitor Gabriel, but Joel had definitely dodged a bullet when he turned Davis down for a date.
Donny hadn’t heard a word Davis had said since the last time he’d uttered “investment banker,” and Davis was so invested in what was coming out of his own mouth, he wasn’t close to being aware of Donny’s quickly mounting boredom.
“You sure talk a lot, Davis.” Donny smoothed his tongue across the front of his teeth, in thought. Davis paused, a fork halfway raised to his mouth, and offered Donny a megawatt smile.
“I like to think I have important things to say.” Davis stuffed the fork into his mouth.
“I know I have important things to say,” Donny countered, but the statement was washed away in another complex explanation of something Donny couldn’t care less about.
It was times like this Donny hated being small as he was. His sister Athena had the stature to match her personality, and all Donny wanted was that, too.
He was well aware of how he looked. He was barely five and a half feet tall and, although he hadn’t been to the doctor lately, was confident he weighed less than one hundred and forty pounds. People made assumptions about Donny, but the assumptions people made were wrong.
He thought about the similarities between him and Joel. They were both short; they were both slender. They both had a good handle on their hairstyles.
Maybe Davis just has a thing for emo twinks who can’t keep their hair out of their eyes.
Except that was the point where the similarities between Joel and Donny ended.
Finally, the check arrived and Donny eyed it, waiting for Davis to reach for it. With as much time as he’d spent talking about how much money he had and flaunting that stupid Tesla key fob, Donny was surprised Davis hadn’t already thrown down a black American Express card.
He sucked in a breath, realizing that Davis had, for once, stopped talking. Donny looked up from the interesting white cloth napkin on his lap to see Davis across from him with a hand extended.
“Your half is $17.84.”
Donny blinked, and opened his mouth. “I thought this was a date. You asked if I wanted to go on a date, and here I am.”
“Well, sure. But I never said I was going to pay for you, Adonis. It’s 2018. Are you not man enough to pull your own weight in a relationship?” Davis tapped his credit card on top of the check. It was a black American Express, Jesus Christ, and he wanted seventeen dollars from Donny?
Not interested in making sense of the utter bullshit that had just fallen out of Davis’s mouth, Donny reached into his pocket and pulled twenty bucks out of his wallet, tossing the bill toward Davis before standing up from the table.
“So, we’re square then. Have a good night, Davis. It’s been…” Donny clamped his mouth shut, unsure how to finish the sentence.
Davis stood, “You don’t want to come back to my place?” He tossed his head back a little, raising his eyebrows suggestively.
“No. I’m not sure I’m man enough for that, Davis. Thanks, though.” He blinked at Davis slowly, letting the dry sarcasm of his reply settle.
When he felt his point had been understood, he turned to go but was physically stopped when Davis’s long arm reached across the table to grab his shoulder. The force behind the gesture spun Donny around, and he wobbled on his feet before regaining his balance and squaring his stance.
“Wait! Wait up.” Davis took a step forward that bordered on invasion of Donny’s personal space. “I think we could have some fun tonight, don’t you? You’re so much prettier than your little red-haired friend.” He reached up and secured a hand around the back of Donny’s neck, trying to pull him forward for a kiss. Donny attempted to brace himself and resist the tug, but Davis had managed a firm grip and he stumbled.
“I said no,” Donny repeated himself, this time choosing to leave off th
e sarcastic tone hoping his message would be more clearly received.
It wasn’t.
A deviant look darkened Davis’s face, then his mouth quirked in what Donny assumed was a smile but looked much more like a menacing grimace.
“I don’t think you really mean that, Adonis.” Davis sneered when he growled out Donny’s given name and gave a rough squeeze to his neck, pulling some hairs and causing him to gasp in pain. Donny squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath in through his nose. He exhaled, bringing up a knee with all the force he could muster, managing a direct hit to Davis’s khaki-clad crotch. Davis cried out, instinctively releasing his hold on Donny.
“I do mean that, Davis. I don’t say things I don’t mean.” He turned again to leave while Davis was still crumpled in half, massaging his cock and balls with shaking hands. One step away from the table and Donny thought better of it. He turned around and picked his twenty up from the table, tapping the top of Davis’s head with it before leaving the restaurant.
Donny pulled his phone out of his pocket to call Athena, but before he was able to dial, the screen lit up with an incoming call from his work.
“Hello?” he answered, holding the phone against his shoulder to slide his cash back into his wallet.
“Donny, hey, it’s Lawrence. Are you busy?” Lawrence sounded breathless as he huffed into the phone.
“Not exactly, but I’m also not working tonight,” Donny clarified.
“I know! I know, but I’m in a bit of a bind. Can I get you to make a delivery for me? Mel called in sick, and I have three to do before I go home, and this new one just came in, and I can’t do it.” Lawrence’s voice took on a tone that sounded a lot like trepidation as he pushed the request out, and Donny wasn’t sure what the problem was. Lawrence had easily gotten through four deliveries in two hours in the past.
“It’s not like you to turn down tips, Lawrence. Why can’t you do it? What is the delivery?” Donny was standing in the middle of the sidewalk and someone bristled past him, knocking him off balance and causing the phone to slip from his grip.
“Fuck.” Donny bent down to pick the phone up and dusted some gravel from the back of the case. As he returned the phone to his ear, he caught only the tail end of whatever Lawrence was saying.
“...not so bad, I don’t think. Please, Donny? Just come by and grab it, make the drop, and then go about your night.”
Another tip was another tip, even if it was only a few bucks. It wasn’t like Donny was hurting for money or anything, though. Athena did well with her modeling and always kicked cash down to Donny after she got paid. He lived in Hollywood like he'd always dreamed of doing, he had three little Siamese kittens that adored him more than anything on the planet, and he had a delivery job that allowed him flexibility with his schedule to pursue his real dream—which was not being a cat-owning delivery driver.
“Fine, I’ll come by. Leave it on the counter,” Donny acquiesced, digging his keys from his pocket and trekking the block to where he and Davis had parked.
“You’re a lifesaver!” Lawrence exclaimed before ending the call.
Donny slid his phone back into his pocket and laughed when he saw that Davis’s vehicle was already gone. Donny climbed inside his car and headed toward work to see exactly what he’d signed up for by agreeing to do this delivery for Lawrence.
After picking up what proved to be a surprisingly small box, Donny punched the address into his GPS, pleased to find it was only a few blocks away from his apartment. A few important blocks, Donny noted to himself before mentally amending—holy shit, this guy lives in the W penthouses.
He pulled into a guest parking spot, rode the elevator from the garage to the lobby, and waited for the doorman to show up.
“How can I help you?” The doorman ended up sounding unexpectedly condescending when he finally appeared, which was off-putting considering he was supposed to be polite to residents and guests. Donny was pretty certain he probably looked more like a kid who had stumbled in off Hollywood Boulevard to get a glimpse of the posh Hollywood lifestyle than someone actually had any sort of business being inside the building, but that didn’t excuse the attitude.
“I have a delivery for,” Donny glanced down at the package, “Roland Wilson.”
“You can leave it with me.” The doorman held his hand out. Donny pulled the package closer to his body.
“Sorry, that’s against company policy. The customer didn’t approve us to release the package to anyone other than himself. Can you call him up, please?”
The doorman looked Donny from shoes to hair before picking up the phone and dialing. “Mr. Wilson, you have a delivery downstairs. Yes, thank you, sir.” He hung up the phone and squinted his eyes at Donny, before he stepped out from behind the podium.
“Please allow me to see you to the elevator.” The doorman gestured to a bank of elevators, pressing the call button on one which immediately opened. Donny stepped inside and the doorman leaned in, swiped a key card across a gray pad, and pressed the PH1 button before removing himself from the elevator car.
The doors quickly closed and the elevator ascended. Donny realized this was one of those fancy elevators that traveled at what he assumed must be the speed of light because his body arrived at the penthouse floor long before his stomach.
He found the large black double doors with the PH1 marker on them and knocked twice. Almost immediately, the door opened a crack and an arm snaked out.
“I need a signature, please?” His voice tipped up in a question when he realized Roland Wilson had no intention of making an actual physical appearance. Donny heard an exasperated sigh before the arm disappeared inside, and the door closed. A chain lock disengaged and the door re-opened.
Once Donny was able to get an actual look at Roland Wilson, his breath audibly caught in his throat and he choked out a noise that sounded like a cross between a groan and a sigh.
The man who stood in front of him—this Roland Wilson that Lawrence didn’t want to deliver to—was a sight. He was tall, easily six foot, with a mane of golden brown hair that hung around his face like a halo to past his shoulders. What Donny guessed to be a few weeks’ worth of facial hair bloomed up his cheeks. Behind a cluster of dark lashes, bright green eyes glared at Donny, and one of Roland's arms extended forward again, gesturing for the pen and clipboard he was squeezing tightly between his fingers. Even with a body that vibrated with coiled tension, Roland was far beyond handsome. He was breathtaking.
Donny extended his hand and the clipboard. “Line 4, please,” his voice barely above a whisper.
Donny didn’t feel like himself. This wasn’t him. He might be small, and people always assumed he was meek and quiet, but that had never been true. Yet here, in this hallway, Donny couldn’t get a fucking coherent sentence from his brain to his mouth.
Roland signed the paper and thrust it back toward him. Donny fumbled for it, dropping it to the floor as he extended his other hand to hand off the package. Donny bent down to collect his clipboard and Roland snatched the package. By the time he’d straightened up, the front door of PH1 had slammed closed and Roland had disappeared.
Chapter 2
Shades of Blue
Roland slammed the door closed and dropped the delivery box onto the floor beside him. He leaned back and bumped his head repeatedly against the wall.
Thump, thump, thump.
He’d ordered more paintbrushes because he’d snapped his other ones in half out of frustration, but having new brushes wouldn’t clear the fog from his brain. It had been months since he’d painted anything he liked. Nothing was worth a shit. He’d cancelled his last showing because he didn’t have any pieces to show, and he respected prospective gallery-goers enough to not recycle old art. He’d tried switching mediums, going back to charcoal or pencil, but nothing worked. Roland had come close to taking a knife to the blank canvases, ready to give up art altogether.
He stopped in the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of vodka from
his freezer and kicked the box of brushes ahead of him toward his studio space. He opened the bottle and dropped the cap in the hall, kicking the door to his studio shut behind him as he entered. The bottle was almost half full, and he planned on finishing it off before the night was over.
Perhaps Roland was a bit masochistic to sit there and stare at blank white canvas all day and night, but he'd already tried to find inspiration and fallen short. He had been out in nature, trying to find ideas in flowers and sunshine. Nothing. He’d ventured out at night, immersing himself into the sights and sounds of a Saturday evening in the city. Nothing. He’d even pored over the undertones and meanings of his older works to pick out a feeling that moved him to generate something new. Nothing. Still nothing. Always nothing.
Roland took a swig from the bottle, setting it on a stool beside him before leaning down to tear open the tape on the box he’d just had delivered. He pulled a brush out of the thick plastic packaging and stuck the bristles into his mouth to soften them up with spit and residual vodka. He shifted the brush to the side of his mouth while he absentmindedly swirled shades of blue paint around on a plate instead of a palette, mixing them to a unique shade that could possibly match the delicate floral swirls on willow china.
He took another drink from the bottle, and when the brush was suitably moistened, he swiped it through a glob of porcelain blue and took a deep breath, raising the brush to canvas. With a fluid stroke across the canvas he left a blue smear, contrasting against the white. Roland took another drink and lengthened the line, bringing it down and letting the color fade into a whisper.
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