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It was 7pm on a Saturday evening, and Ryland Grace picked up his phone to call the only A-list celebrity in his contacts.
The man in question picked up. ‘Ryland!’
‘Tom.’ Ryland seethed, ‘I can’t accept the watch.’ His beanbag Earth was suffering in his grip. This guy, thinking he could throw all this money around to try and gain Ryland’s attention. Well, a quiet, annoying part of him inside mused, isn’t it working?
‘Sure you can, darlin’.’ Tom sounded so sure of himself at the end of the line. Ryland almost envied him. ‘I’m giving it to you.’
‘Tom.’ Ryland tried again. ‘This is too much. Way too much. I - I can’t even… describe how too much this is.’
‘It’s just a watch.’ A pause. ‘I thought it would look good on you. I thought you’d like it.’ There was an edge to his voice, and didn’t that just make Grace’s head spin? Celebrity actor Tom Ryder, wanting to buy something for little ol' Ryland Grace, disgraced academic and middle-school teacher? A hot flush rushed through his body, unbidden, and he tried to tamp it down.
He didn’t even know what to do with ‘I thought it would look good on you,’ so he aimed squarely for the second comment. He would turn that first part over in his brain later, hopefully after he got two glasses of whisky in him first. ‘And – and I do like it. It’s great, it’s… a beautiful piece!’
And it was, truly. Ryland didn’t know much about watches, but he wasn’t a big fan of those that were bulkier, almost ostentatious in their silver plating. This one, the one that Tom had given him — sent not by a retail delivery driver, but by an honest-to-God personal courier who handed the package to Ryland personally — was a stunning cream colour in the face, with a soft, brown leather band. It was highlighted with rose-gold accents on the trim, and small red detailing hugged the inside. He'd closed the lid on the box almost as quickly as he'd opened it, afraid that if he breathed wrong it would be forever stained. Ryland was almost annoyed that Tom had intuited his personal taste so well on principle.
Tom made an approving noise. ‘Then you’ll wear it?’
‘Tom, I work with middle schoolers. I’d lose it on playground duty, or scratch it somehow, or crack the glass. Something! I don’t even have the money for replacement batteries when these ones die. They’re probably like, some fancy type of —'
‘You don’t have to worry about money, sweetheart.’ He drawled, ‘I told you already, I’d take care of you.’
‘And I’m telling you —’ Ryland pointedly ignored the flush in his cheeks. Tom couldn’t see it anyway. ‘I can’t take it. It’s going to get damaged if I wear it. And besides, I don’t even want to know how much this cost.' Some evil, twisted little twinge inside of him actually really did want to know — how much was he worth, to a man of millions? — but he shoved that into the back of his mind for later examination.
‘What if you saved it just for special occasions, then?’ Ryland nearly rolled his eyes.
‘Special occasions, Tom, I don’t go to special occasions like you.’ He sighed, fiddling with his beanbag again. ‘I go to a wedding maybe once or twice a year. Sometimes a funeral. I don’t even go to academic conferences anymore.’ The UNESCO incident had left a particular hole in his heart for the halls of academia he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to fill, but it wasn’t like he could do anything about it.
'Cannes is on next weekend. You could make an appearance. With me, of course.' Ryland's heart dropped into his stomach. Was... Was he serious? He could imagine - Tom, dressed to the nines, beautiful suit he'd probably been paid to wear, matching Derby shoes and a blindingly brilliant manufactured smile. And then... Ryland, shabby, more wrinkles on his face than he was comfortable with, wearing a suit and shoes that Tom would inevitably lend him because otherwise it was going to be his wedding/funeral gear. With a thirty-thousand dollar rose gold watch on his wrist, probably more than his life insurance payout. They'd know instantly that he didn't belond there, even with Tom's hand wrapped securely around his waist (and he didn't want to think about how that would feel). Tom's fellow actors would ignore hin as one of his many seasonal flings, and the paparazzi would blind him with their invasive (and bright) cameras, preparing to strip him of all anonymity and privacy by Monday morning.
'Uh, I ... uh, think that might be a bit... much.' he croaked out.
'Of course,' Ryland heard some shuffling on Tom's end of the line. He wondered, briefly, what Tom was doing before he called him. 'How about a date, then?'
What.
'... Huh?' Did he just hear him correctly?
'A date,' Tom hummed, 'you know, me, you, maybe a bar or a restaurant. Some fancy cocktails, some...bad decisions.' Tom's crooning voice over the phone was soft and heady, and made blood rush straight to his dick. 'That could be considered a special occasion, don't you think?' Ryland sucked in a breath, and he swore he heard the creak of leather where Tom leaned forward in his chair. 'Please, Rylie, I want to see you in it. I bought it just for you. There's a no-refunds policy, I can't even take it back. And it would look so good on you, darlin'.'
Something hitched in Ryland's chest. 'Uh...'
Here was Tom Ryder, dangling expensive gifts in front of his face, and Ryland was shamed to admit it was working. Suddenly, the thought of Tom and himself, huddled deep in a booth in low light at the back of the bar, sides pressed against each other and three drinks deep, sounded very appealing and even better - attainable. An image his mind conjured up, of Tom's thick thighs filling out his slacks, and Ryland's hand pressed against one, wrist glinting with the reflective metal of the watch, stark against Tom's pants. Fingers, tracing lightly up and down his inseam —
'Please, Ryland.' And that soft, lilting voice really did him in.
His voice was rough when he answered. 'Y-Yeah. Yeah, okay.' A pressure, released off his chest.
'Perfect,' Ryland could hear Tom's little self-satisfied purr from here. 'I'll arrange everything. Next Saturday, I'll pick you up at your door.'
'Okay,' This might even be a good idea, if he looked at it from the right angle. A date with moviestar Tom Ryder, after he'd already been given a substantial gift. It was the least he could do, really, if Tom wanted him to wear it out.
There was a noise on Tom's end, some shouting in the distance. Ryland belatedly realised he was probably still at work. 'I have to go, but I'll see you then.'
'Right,' Ryland aimed for unaffected, and probably missed by a mile. 'Good luck on your shoots and — hey, don't buy me anything else.' He tried to put a little of his Teacher Voice into his warning, a mean little edge so Tom would know he wasn't fucking around. 'I mean it, Tom. Nothing else.'
Tom chuckled, 'For a pretty thing like you? No promises, sweetheart.' And hung up.