When Dream Met Desire

This is a story loosely based on a reoccurring dream I used to have.

Sam, if you're out there somewhere... hey.

--

"Why do people ride rollercoasters?

The adrenaline. The feeling of facing your fears. The thrill of soaring through space.

The ability to forget whatever the fuck is going on in your life and just fly."

- Victoria Pedretti

--

I didn't know that dreams and desires could be so interconnected. Shadowy, shimmering reflections, stitched together at the seams even when they felt worlds apart. Feeding and fanning each other's appetite like an insatiable ouroboros of insanity,

Dreams had always been my escape, even as a child that never liked to sleep. Dozing off in classes or traversing different planes in my mind whilst my body was firmly rooted; transporting me through time and space to dimensions of wildest fantasy. Fantasies that felt so real, so right, I could feel them humming in my bones long after I'd been snapped back to the present.

A taste for unknown and unchartered waters that roared through my veins like destiny calling.

It didn't occur to me that desire could feel the same. A needy, agonising, avaricious wildfire that tripped every one of my nerves and wrung me out like lightning. Something that could bring every single hair of mine to attention; my thrumming fingertips itching and seeking, desperate to own and explore. To intertwine myself in someone else's breath, someone else's being - to pull at the threads of their destiny until it was so inextricably linked with mine.

I didn't know that dream and desire answered only to each other.

I didn't know, until I met him.

--

The movies always make shock out to be this big, explosive thing. Big eyes, gaping mouths, broken vases or slips that sent you sprawling. Tripping and catching on the edge of things, like narrowly avoiding being pushed off a cliff.

Shock didn't feel like that. Shock didn't feel like anything at all, except empty space and distance as you fell and watched the cliff face rise out of the sea. Registered the waves rising to swallow you whole.

"What did you say?"

Santi sighed, vaguely irritated. "I said," he repeated, thumbing delicately through the binder of invoices in his hand, "you two should just fuck already."

I didn't move - couldn't, really. Despite the mountains of papers and folders crowding us in my shoebox-sized office and the immediate deadline weighing heavy on our shoulders, I couldn't bring myself to do anything but blink.

"Santi," I bit out. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Oh, great. Come off it Jei. Just because I was brave enough to say it out loud doesn't mean I'm the only one -"

"That is the kind of shit you can NEVER say out loud!" I was hissing at him now. "This is a business! We are a company!! Maybe the warehouse doesn't feel like it sometimes, and sure, we run kind of lax around here, but when we trade in the eyes of the law that is how we stand. Do you understand that?"

Santi snapped the binder shut and stared at me quizzically. For a gangly youth on the edge of twenty-two, he was really much brighter than the lads gave him credit for. That's why he was with me, in the office, whilst the rest of the warehouse crew were sweating their balls off out back. He was the closest thing I'd get to an assistant around here.

"You know there's a whole lot of stuff we trade that doesn't belong in the eyes of the law." His face was blank; eyes empty and impassive. "Right?"

I sighed, leaning back against the bureau and feeling my shirt stick to my back from the sickly July heat. It was a constant, if not never-ending struggle, to try and impart some form of legitimacy into the lackadaisical way Sam's company was run. Most of the guys here didn't care, as long as they got a weekly cheque to cash and a simple set of tasks.

But as the office manager, HR rep and one half of the sales team all rolled into one, lines and lines of fine print were what kept me up at night. A lot of my days felt like teaching barbarians which fork to use at the dinner table.

Yes, there were also parts of the business that were... shadier, than others. I didn't have a choice in that. Sam paid me far too well to walk away as easily as I'd threatened to in the past, so now I juggled a questionable moral compass alongside the million and one things I was expected to do and turned a blind eye to the weird shit that happened every so often. He knew how I felt about being directly involved with that stuff, and kept it off my desk as best he could.

Today we were combing through my scatterbrained archives to confirm my suspicions on a double-crossing supplier, though, so you know. Best laid plans and all that.

"That's besides the point," I said bleakly. "We just about have things under control around here. There are new partnerships and purchases on the horizon. You've got to be careful with what comes out of your mouth, especially when the others are around."

"Are you okay?" Santi looked both concerned and repulsed by the turn in our conversation. We'd been having a decent time until he'd voided all vibes by suggesting I shack up with our boss. "Did you skip your coffee or something? Like anyone cares about what you get up to when you're not working in this shithole."

I fixed him with a steely glare. "Power dynamics, you moron. Bosses who fuck their underlings clearly run a self-serving enterprise. Well-respected businesses aren't going to lean on a trader that lacks basic integrity. So just... don't, okay?" I thumbed through the file in my hand and grimaced. "Tell that to your gang of fucking loudmouths too."

He shook his head disgustedly, jumping off the desk. "I still think you're on one, but fine. Sure." A snort burst out of him as he resumed his perusal of the accounts. "Won't make it any less obvious though."

I let out a low growl and went to boot up the printer.

--

My knuckles rapped softly against the wood of the doorjamb. This building used to be a pub back in its heyday; one of those heavy, groaning structures that looked like it had seen several centuries. It was impossibly warm in the summer and draughty as fuck come November. But we put up with it, because it was beautiful.

Sam looked up from his desk, cluttered with sign-offs he still hadn't gotten around to and his beloved dual monitor set-up. It buzzed quietly in the background. "Hey."

"Is now a good time?"

He nodded briefly, gesturing to one of the chairs by the wall. "Shut the door."

I wish I could say that didn't frighten me. That I didn't freeze, didn't stop breathing, didn't turn to do what I was told with a stomach full of sloshing dread.

But I couldn't. I hated being alone with him.

Sam adjusted himself in his chair, swinging his long limbs around as he swivelled for something to do. He was a giant of a man - just shy of six and a half feet, I think - and all arms and legs rippling with lean, mean sinew. I could only be my bitchiest or snappiest or snarkiest with him when he was tucked safely behind his desk, demanding him to get on with the shit that was slowing down my schedule, because it was harder to shout down at someone who towered over you like a tree.

A single hoop dangled from his left earlobe; kinky black curls escaped his hair-tie to gather at the sides of his face. He raked them back with his fingers, and I swallowed.

"The Gordon's deal fell through."

I frowned. "Oh."

"It's fine. We'll go back to picking them up through third-party. Not a big loss, just slightly annoying."

"We've still got Tanqueray on the docket anyhow, right?"

"Yeah. Exactly." Fingers slid up his chin to touch the edge of his lips, and his dark, unwavering gaze met mine. "Avila wants a second meeting."

I suddenly got why he hadn't batted an eyelid at the month's worth of negotiations just poured down the drain.

"Wait, what??"

He grinned.

Spluttering, I leaned back in my seat. "Holy - fuck, I don't know what to say. That's good, right? This is great news!"

"He wants us to fly out to Seville." His eyes sparkled and creased, the way they only did when he was really pleased. I fought the urge to grin back at him. "Take a tour of the factory, the grounds - get to know the team a little better. He doesn't trade with the UK, so if we can make this work, it'll be a huge deal." His smile faded slightly. "It's not going to be easy."

I watched him for few seconds longer than I should have. Samir Khan was a lot of things - aloof, reserved, inscrutable. Easily bored. A bit of a brat, too, though I doubted very many saw that side of him. But he was also a shrewd businessman, and probably the most ambitious man I'd ever met.

The fledgling funds he'd borrowed from his brother to foray into the world of wholesaling had branched into a forty-person company in under two years, supplying pubs and bars and restaurants across the entirety of England's southeast. And he'd gotten here by managing every department, working the jobs of every single employee until he reached a level of security where he could afford to hire his people, so I couldn't even hold his quiet, resounding arrogance against him.

"I wouldn't expect it to be," I said, with a smirk - or perhaps a wry smile. I don't know what my face looked like; all I knew is I was trying to inject a little enthusiasm back into this precarious opportunity. "You'll most likely have your work cut out for you. Avila's got a sadistic streak; he'll want you to sweat for it."

Sam raised one of his glorious eyebrows. "Oh?"

"Absolutely." I didn't break eye contact. "Don't ask how I know. I just do." I paused, thinking about it. "Be careful."

A weird smile crossed his face - not one of those cool, ingenuine ones that dismissed you without having to say a word, or the tight-lipped professional ones that touched the corners of his eyes before he coaxed a client through a pitch. This one was soft; almost tender. For a second he looked capable of human emotion.

"I'm taking five of us." He glanced up at the ceiling to make his calculations. "That should be enough. Let Avila know what he's dealing with. Warehouse will run fine on its own."

"How long are you going for?"

"Three days, two nights. We fly out on Wednesday." His eyebrows folded together. "Can you book the flights?"

"Sure. I'll have a look at SkyScanner today."

"Check for business class. I'll give you the bank card."

I nodded, getting up from my chair and exhaling now that this was over. I was twisting the doorknob when he spoke again.

"You won't be able to wear your jeans out there. Spain hit thirty-two degrees yesterday. Maybe pack a skirt or two."

A mounting chill spread through my bones, icing over each of my vertebrae in turn until I was as stiff as a pole. I stared at the doorknob, encased in my hand and my hoodie sleeve, and thought I might throw up.

"I can't go," I said.

Sam merely flicked his gaze over one of his monitors. "Why's that?"

"The - the office. We can't both be away. The warehouse will be fine, but who's going to answer the phones? Manage the inbox; hound our suppliers?"

A smirk - or perhaps, a wry smile - toyed with the corner of his lips. The look he gave me was daring and dark.

"You'll be of more use protecting me from Jose Avila," he replied. "After all - you know him better than I do."

--

The following Thursday I was holed up in my hotel room, listening to traffic from the open door of my balcony and pretending it was the distant shoreline.

Santi had messaged in a state of panic, so I'd excused myself after dinner and left the guys to relish whatever vices Avila had yet to treat them to. I wished they had a few more braincells to rub together - no one had signed anything yet, and they were digging themselves into something dangerous drinking so uninhibitedly from his perpetual fountain of goodwill.

Whatever. Apparently they were grown men.

Of course I'd been right about Avila, the scheming little weasel. He'd been watching us like a hawk the moment we entered Seville, him and his beady-eyed compadres, laughing too hard at Sam's stories and seducing the lot of them with top-shelf booze and tanned bombshells. Yawn. The party scene he ran here was a borderline harem, though most of his girls were very sweet.

I looked down at the mani I'd scored with them yesterday afternoon - white stilettos with orange daisies in each corner - and listened to Santi bitch and whine.

"I don't know what to do!" He sounded frustrated more than anything. The idiot was still whispering like Ernesto was in the room. "He kissed me, Jeida. Like a full-on kiss. Tongue and everything."

"Yes, Santi, I get the picture," I said dryly.

"Don't be a dick," he snapped. "I don't need that from you."

"I told you he liked you!"

"It's ERNESTO!!" he exclaimed, like that meant anything. I rolled my eyes. "Polo shirt, pencil-tached Ernesto!! Doesn't even like salt on his fries Ernesto!! Fucking blueprint for the straight Cubano Ernesto!!!"

"You'll give yourself an aneurysm if you keep doing this. Being in the warehouse for so long has put you back in a weird bigoted little box. Clearly he's not as straight as he seems."

Santi only grunted. I fought the urge to laugh at him.

"Has he spoken to you since?"

"I have a shift with him tomorrow." His words became hoarse. Pained. "What if he outs me? No, worse - what if he ignores me?"

"If it gets too much, you hang out in my office. Pretend you're scanning a file for me or something. And if he tries anything - ANYTHING - that turns the boys against you or makes you feel unsafe, then you go straight home. I'll fire every single fucker that even talks about touching you."

Santi was quiet for a good long while. I thought he might have even hung up.

"You're a good boss, Jei," he said, still whispering. "Thank you."

I wanted more than anything to squeeze him in a hug, but that would have to wait.

"Get some sleep, bozo. You've got to get in for eight."

"Easy for you to say, drinking morning margheritas and calling it work. Have you let the bossman bone you yet?"

"Shut up."

He snickered down the phone. "It's gonna happen. Like, maybe not right now. But it will. I saw it all over his face at our little handover on Tuesday."

"Santi!"

"I wonder what face he makes when he comes."

"Santiago Garcia-Ferreira, I'm ending the call before I have to personally come over there and beat your stupid arse. This is your last warning."

He was still laughing when I cut the line, flushing like the fool I was.

There was a knock at my door within the hour. I almost missed it over the reggaeton blaring from a bar down the street. Sam was leaning against the doorjamb, eyes glazed over from booze or pot, or maybe something else entirely.

I'd been right about that too. Avila was in the market for someone to transport more than just his fucking tequila.

He released a forceful exhale. "Yeah. You are trying to kill me."

I furrowed my eyebrows. "What?"

Sam pulled at a piece of my hair - messy, outgrown highlights tossed in a bun to ward off the heat - and glanced purposefully down at my t-shirt. I folded my arms across my chest.

"Carlos snores," he stated. "I'm bunking with you tonight."

I barked out a laugh and shoved him backwards. "In your dreams. There's only one bed in here, and it's mine."

"I didn't say you couldn't sleep in it." This time he pushed back, pinning me to the wall with the heel of his hand and boorishly moving past. I sighed inwardly.

The bed shook as he sank onto it; an old, spindly antique thing that could just about support the mattress. He flopped onto my pillows and groaned.

"Sit with me."

I crawled over him to a vacant spot by the wall, crossing my legs and examining him. Dead eyes stared at the ceiling.

"He won't bother you again." The words escaped him slowly, thick and muffled. "I made sure of it."

"You best not have done something stupid."

"You didn't want to come. I shouldn't have forced you." He ran a hand over his face. "I'm sorry."

I shook my head, turning away from him. "You definitely won't remember this."

"Screwing things up," he mumbled. Abruptly, he rolled over, the matchbox bedframe creaking its dissent, and let his head loll into my lap.

I stared, dumbfounded. Gaped at the fucking nerve of him, then noted with a giddiness that was really quite disturbing the way his soft breathing tickled the hairs on my thigh.

"Ohhhh dear," I murmured in a quiet singsong.

He chuckled, brushing a thumb over my ankle. "What's up?"

"Nothing," I twisted a single curl at the nape of his neck. Everywhere he touched me sizzled, vibrating, like he'd hit a note on a tuning fork that rippled under my skin. I flexed under the feel of his fingers. "I just - I'm worried, that's all."

"Don't be. I'll take care of you."

My heart began to plummet, dropping into an inky, bottomless pit. "That's not what I'm saying, Sam."

"Then be clearer, or shut up. I'm trying to sleep."

I sank back against the wall, cradling him absentmindedly until his breaths dragged low and sonorous, and waited for the sun to peek over the horizon.

--

My hands shook with the jitters of too much coffee. At the moment it was the only thing keeping me going. My body was screaming for sustenance; my brain was crying for sleep.

I flicked through the final pile of expenses and started straightening out the receipts.

Santi was in the office, perched on top of my new sideboard as he surreptitiously attempted to spy on me. He wasn't doing a good job. Something was bothering him, and from what I could gather it was me, so I'd spent the last few days pretending I hadn't noticed until he could find a way to express it.

It was possible Sam had put him up to this, which made me want to cackle, but I pushed that thought down amongst all the other whispers ricocheting around my skull. Spinning and sticking together like candyfloss, crowding my mind in thick swathes and stealing precious oxygen from my basic functions.

"I swear there was more than this," I muttered. "We had six lorries go out last week."

"Pedro said he covered the petrol." Santi swirled the boba left in his cup, looking up at me anxiously. "But I guess... do you want me to see if he still has them? The receipts, I mean."

"Yes, please." My polite veneer was wearing thin. I rubbed the skin at my temples. "He shouldn't be covering fuel in the first place. If he can't find them, get him to check his statement and text me the total."

He jumped off the sideboard almost immediately, rocking the thing as he did so. "Okay."

A sudden surge of annoyance burst through me and I found myself glaring at him. "What's up with you? You never spend your lunch out here; you certainly never offer to help unless you're bored out of your mind. What's going on??"

Santi seemed to seize up. His jacket scrunched in his hand, and he let out a nervous laugh. "Does something have to be going on for us to hang out?"

"Don't give me that bullshit, Santi." I knew he was deflecting, but I softened my voice anyway. "Tell me. Who put you up to this?"

"No one. I'm not doing anything, honest. Just..." he cast his gaze across the corridor to Sam's office, checking the big glass windows that stared directly into mine. It was empty.

"Something's been off since you guys got back. You're quiet, sure, but you ain't ever been this closed off. Self-contained." He pursed his lips together. "Did something happen? You can tell me, you know."

I sighed. Sweet, irreverent Santi, with his juvenile mood swings and callous sense of humour. This was the most serious I had ever seen him. "I'm fine."

"No you're not." He shook his head sadly and tossed his jacket over his shoulder. "You're a good person, Jeida. Don't let him do this. If you wanna torch the fucker's office or something, I'm here."