Million Dollar Man

Million Dollar Man: Chapter 1 || The Pull

" And I don't know how you get over, get over
Someone as dangerous, tainted and flawed as you."
-- Million Dollar Man by Lana Del Rey.

Life had been bordering on idyllic since his crew had taken the Union Depository for all they could, and finally dispatched of the threats at their doors, and most of the skeletons in their closets. With a hefty sum in the bank, his family back under one roof, and legitimate work to busy himself with, Michael De Santa thought things couldn't get much better.

Or at least that's what he was telling himself.

When the email popped up on his phone, he glanced at it for all of two seconds before clicking it away again, but for some reason he didn't delete it. It was an unconscious decision, and one he was later glad he'd made. He'd kept a lifeline back for himself, something that might help him survive this revamped retirement.

For as much as he'd hated that smug prick Friedlander for all the judging and looking down his nose he did. Not to mention that damn book he'd written - he missed having someone to vent to. Without that release, he was steadily bottling things up again and he knew all too well that it would slowly turn him explosively toxic.

He wasn't short of people in his life, but they weren't the kind of people you whined to. He saw plenty of Franklin and Trevor, although the latter was often a trauma in itself. He could never bring himself to open up properly about his trouble with Trevor, not after what he'd done to him. After everything that had been said since they reconnected. Underneath it all, it felt wrong to sound so ungrateful and disenchanted after seeing how he'd left Trevor to live for so many years.

He checked in on Lester too, every few weeks, but he did all he could to avoid baring his soul to any of his comrades. It didn't feel right to go on about about how hard life was getting to those guys. They didn't get it and that was okay, he didn't expect them to. They didn't have domestic issues as he did. They had more money than they'd ever know what to do with now, their problems and stresses had vanished the instant Lester had put all those zeros in their bank accounts, but Michael had money. It wasn't new to him. He'd been there, tried that, and found it wasn't the cure-all he'd hoped for.

More money, more problems - seemed to be the rule of thumb now and even with trying to go legitimate as a studio exec and a business owner, he found that working for a living wasn't all it had been cracked up to be.

He'd made some acquaintances at the studio, the golf and country clubs of course, but they were much like the people who worked for him - just faces he made small talk with. People he felt pressure to maintain a certain image around.

While he'd been in therapy, he hadn't realized just how much it helped to just rant and rave to someone. Now the option was gone, he truly missed it. Of course, he found the bitterness about paying someone to be interested in his problems and he hated sitting there, feeling as if he was being silently judging every word from his mouth. However, now that service had been removed from his life, he found it harder and hard to deny that therapy had actually helped.

He thought it was silly to need an ear like he did, and God knows he bitched enough about being in therapy while he was going through it, but he'd become used to visiting Dr. Friedlander. Used to the random phone calls, someone checking up on him. Even though half the time the asshole was just calling to fleece more money out of him, it had been nicer that he'd realized just to have someone on the sidelines that he could unload to. Someone who seemed to actually give a shit about what was happening in his head.

So, he kept the email from Friedlander's replacement, and he couldn't stop himself clicking on his inbox, almost every night. Reading, and re-reading the email over and over, contemplating the benefits of another session, all while still simultaneously telling himself he didn't need it. Hovering his thumb above the reply button, as he warred with himself over giving in and arranging an appointment.

After a particularly stressful day, fraught with drama at the studio, heavy downtown traffic, continually ungrateful offspring and an intensive struggle to maintain his newly found non-combative demeanour with his wife - he snapped.

He couldn't resist the pull anymore. Despite knowing the email by heart already, but he gave it one last read to be certain it was what he needed.

Dear Mr De Santa,

Due to Dr Friedlander's unfortunate and untimely death, I have been asked to take over his client list and offer further counseling to anyone who wishes to continue with the therapy they were receiving.

I will be offering sessions at the start of next month. If you are interested in making an appointment please reply, or call, and I will do my best to accommodate you.

I understand that you perhaps feel starting over with a new therapist may not be beneficial to you, but I am in possession of all Dr. Friedlander's notes and will be able to hit the ground running if you choose to continue your therapy with me.

Kind regards,
Dr. Nardovino

What did he have to lose? Apart from a thousand bucks and an hour of his time? He had more than enough money to cover therapy, he wasn't exactly short of time either, and he really needed that ear. Someone to air his inner thoughts to, someone who could help him organize all the confusion within him. Someone to put the dark side that kept on threatening to break out into perspective, or back in its restraints.

He hit reply and typed out a short message without thinking too much about it, asking for the first available appointment. He worried he'd waited too long to take up the offer, the email was weeks old now, but a reply came back to him almost instantly.

It offered a slot that Thursday at eleven am. There was no demand for confirmation, it was an open invitation to show up at an address on Ineseno Road, along the coast near Chumash.

He stopped himself from replying to confirm his attendance, he didn't want to seem too keen, and he certainly didn't want to tie himself into committing to showing up, but the truth of the matter was - he couldn't wait.

The hope that having someone to talk to about what was going on inside his head, seemed to help him continue to maintain the positive and agreeable facade at home. He hoped more therapy sessions would keep the mask in place and prevent his mind from being contaminated with all the dark side of himself, his aggression and all the thoughts that played in the shadows.

To some degree, for a while at least, therapy had helped him control those urges that tried desperately to provoke him. Yet now he'd tasted the life again, it had undone all the good the years of treatment had done. He was finding it hard and harder every day to resist taking up the shady jobs that crossed his path. The urges that tormented his temper, and excited his libido.

Of course there were no guarantees that the new therapist was going to be any good. He knew it wouldn't be a quick fix, but there was a little hope, and that would have to be good enough for now.