Is there a price on my head, or am I just hungover?

Paul had a rough night and some strange dreams. He had stayed out clubbing till three in the morning and according to his account, had spent four thousand dollars at bars, strip clubs, and ATMs. There was no one else in his bed, but he had dreamed of two of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. He didn’t think he could have made them up. He wasn’t that creative.

What he was, at least, was rich. He traveled all over the country helping criminals hide their money, which lately meant a lot of crypto wallets and trying to explain the difference between Bitcoin and Monero to people who knew how to manage criminal networks like magic but had never passed a math class. Some trips were covered by his day job, supervising the west coast accounts unit at a large insurance company. He paid his manager three grand a month to fudge the productivity reports and generally make him invisible to management. He laundered his money in the usual ways and had recently made a fortune trading options in an insane bull market. Life was good.

One of his favorite things about his life was staying up all night, which also meant sleeping in. Most days, this wasn’t a problem. He would get up around one, make it to the office after three (already clocked in since eight). However, it was only nine o’ clock and he was wide awake. His phone was ringing for the second time, buried in his clothes on the floor halfway across the room and he kicked two bottles getting to it.

“Hello, Paul?”

He nearly threw it into the wall. It was his therapist. He had weekly sessions about a suicide attempt he only half-remembered. According to the police report, he had tried to drive his car off a bridge and only managed to get it stuck on a curb. He usually got really fucked up before he went, but had just skipped the last two. He figured that since he didn’t remember them anyway, there wouldn’t be any harm in not going at all. His therapist disagreed.

“Paul, I have you down for nine-thirty today. Do you remember when we agreed on that time? You rescheduled twice before, and you assured me this time would work for you. I tried to call you three times last night.”

So that’s who was blowing up his phone in the champagne room.

“I’m not going to be able to make it. I got to go to work.”

“I thought you didn’t go in until the afternoon. Isn’t that the arrangement?”

Paul pulled the phone away from his face and gawked at it. How much had he told this dude?

“Uh, no, what? I just can't make it. Look, I'm doing better, I just—”

“Paul, the court mandated that you attend our sessions. If you don’t show up today, I'll have to report it.”

Shit. He could probably pay him off. But why hadn't he done that before? Had he tried? He couldn’t remember.

“All right, fine. Can you give me a couple of hours? I just got up.”

“I will see you at ten. I’ll have breakfast brought to my office, so don’t worry about eating beforehand. Please expect to stay until eleven. Goodbye.”

He hung up! Paul considered having him dissolved in a barrel somewhere, but something told him he had to go to this session or the heat was going to come down on him hard. He decided just to pop something and head out, but found the condo completely drug-free, nothing but thin amber slivers left in the bottles.

He passed out in the back of the Uber on the way and dreamed of a room with no doors. When he screamed, his voice echoed back as a laugh.

His therapist’s office was halfway up a black glass tower downtown, in a hooked hallway between a hedge fund and a fintech startup. The breakfast spread came from a five-star kitchen at the top and almost made it all worth it. He gave his therapist, Andler, a censored summary of his last few weeks while he finished two plates. Afterward, Andler asked him something he asked every session, or at least the ones Paul remembered. It had never seemed weird before. It did today.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

“Any strange dreams lately?”

“No.”

“None?”

“I never dream.”

“Everyone dreams, Paul. Every night. You just might not remember them.” The office was small and minimally furnished, but what was there screamed money. Andler was sitting in a love seat across the coffee table. Paul was sunk into a big leather couch he always struggled not to fall asleep in during their sessions, sipping orange juice and praying for vodka.

“Then I don’t remember them.”

“Paul, you’re sober today for once, which I appreciate, but you usually don’t have any problems talking about your dreams. That tells me you want to, but you think you need the drugs to get up the courage to do so.”

Paul didn’t remember ever telling him about his dreams. Looking back, he could remember being asked, but had no idea what he had said.

“So, you analyze dreams? I thought that was outdated.”

“I don’t analyze them in the Freudian sense, no. However, they can be useful for you to talk about.”

“Like, what I say I feel about my dreams is more important than what you think they symbolize?”

“You could say that.”

Paul ate more of the scones and drank some coffee. He watched the river glitter behind the downtown skyline out the massive floor-to-ceiling window and wondered if any patients ever tried to throw themselves out of it.

“Paul, you really can't recall any of your dreams? You told me last month you would try to remember as many as you could.”

Andler moved his papers around in his folder. Paul hated it. Despite his efforts, there was more of him in those pages than on this side of the coffee table. Maybe coming here high had been a bad idea.

“It was one of our goals, the first one. ‘I will try to remember my dreams. I think they are important. That’s what you wrote right here.”

Andler showed him the paper with his handwriting. Paul didn’t remember writing it. He looked at it like he was giving it serious thought and imagined some maniac throwing Andler through the window.

“We talked about lucid dreaming, how a friend told you about it and you felt it would be helpful to you.”

Paul smiled and nodded. His friend had said “Bruh, you can fuck any girl you want, any way you want when you go lucid. I fuck porn stars two at a time every night”. It had sounded legit.

“Do you remember any of your dreams this week?”

Paul thought about the two girls from last night, which was easy as he had been thinking about them off and on all morning, and decided it would be funny to see Andler’s reaction. He couldn’t imagine the guy even discussing sex. If those two girls showed up at Andler’s house, he’d probably make them tea and ask them about their dads.

“Well, last night I dreamed about two girls, the hottest girls I've ever seen, I mean ever. I don’t know how my mind did it. I'm not creative enough to come up with girls that hot, you know?”

Andler’s reaction was not what Paul had expected. He got very still and seemed to be waiting for Paul to give some grand confession.

“What did these girls want from you?”

Paul laughed and spilled his coffee.

“Are you a robot, Andler?”

Andler didn’t laugh, and something in his not laughing killed Paul's laughter. Was he analyzing his dreams for real?

“Did they ask you anything?” Andler said.

“Uh, yea, you know, normal girl shit. Where I worked, how much I made, what I do for fun.”

“What did you tell them?”

“I don’t know why, but I told them about my job, that I worked for an insurance company. It was weird but, they seemed really interested. Like they thought it was cool that I worked there. What's that mean?”

Andler took a moment to snap out of whatever thoughts he was having.

“It could be a sign that you want to be that person, to take pride in your job. The idea of someone liking you for that seems to be something you want. What else did they ask you?”

“Uh, where the good clubs were, stuff about the city. I think they were from out of town. What does that mean?”

“What else did they ask you?” Paul usually took no shit from anyone, and by all rights he should have backhanded Andler for his tone alone, not to mention ignoring his question, but something had come over him and he couldn’t even consider doing anything besides answering truthfully.

“They asked me where I would be tomorrow. I mean today. They wanted to see me again.”

“What else?”

“That’s it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Sorry.” Paul couldn’t remember the last time he had apologized to anyone.

Andler sat back and sighed.

“Well, I want you to think about what you think that dream means and tell me about it next session. And try to remember any other dreams you have. We talked about dream journals a few sessions ago. I suggest you try your best to write in yours regularly.” There was a pause.

“Are we done?” Paul asked. It had only been half an hour.

“Yes.” Andler didn’t offer any other explanation, and Paul remembered he didn’t want to be there anyway, so he got up and left.

When he was gone, Andler took out his phone.

“He just left. Someone’s trying to get to him. No. I don’t know. Two girls, it seems. Got his P.O.E. Understood. No. Well, call me if they do so, and I’ll get him up.”

He hung up and went behind the desk, pulled the carpet up, and opened a floor safe. He took out a Beretta Px4 with a custom grip, a pouch of three magazines and some car keys, then grabbed his other keys off the desk and went out the door.