The Fifteenth Representative by Hilla Dagan (fiction novels to read .TXT) 📕

“Yeah, there is nothing better than that… that’s exactly what I want….” Thus Sagi concluded our very deep conversation.

We walked into the room and discussed who would come when, where each of them would be, and which seduction strategy Christina will use. And the second strategy, too. I doubted a third one would be needed—with men it was simple, wham-bam… you know the deal.

“Hello, hello,” Noa opened the hotel door for me.

“I missed you,” I said and kissed her roughly on the lips.

“We saw each other only a few hours ago. Watch the lips, you can’t bruise me.”

“That’s a few hours too many.”

“I don’t remember you saying a proper goodbye when you left this morning.” She gave me one of her soul-melting, sexy smiles. “What are you doing? You’ll tear your shirt, and you’ll get coffee everywhere—what—”

The room fell into a half-hour of tense and fun-filled silence. There were no words needed.

“I think if a judge had been around to see all of this, he would have called rape.”

“Complain, then.”

“I’m not even close to complaining about that.”

“Oh, I thought—”

“Are you truly capable of that? Don’t you only pull faces to make other people think you’re smart? Because I know the truth, and you’re just a big idiot.”

“As long as you don’t share that knowledge with other people, that’s fine.”

“What? Not tell them that you’re an idiot. Pshaw—everyone already knows that Eran.”

“You wish, Noa. Drop dead.”

“I know, Eran, and I almost did die—and you’re most certainly an idiot.

“That’s not the area idiots are put to work.”

“You’re wrong, that’s exactly where,” she whispered while her hand made its way toward my boxers, leaving ants in its wake. That’s the way a friend of mine puts it. Hilarious.

She’s always driven me crazy, Noa. How was I supposed to put the world’s best interests first when she was next to me?

Bradley’s office was located on the fiftieth floor of a tall building right beside the Australian main bank.

Some would suggest that’s symbolic. I’d tend to agree.

Christina and I walked toward the building’s entrance.

“Hello, we’re here for Mr. Bradley,” I said while holding out my Australian ID.

Christina handed over her own in silence.

The guard gave us passes and we made our silent way up to the fiftieth floor.

Two kind looking women greeted us from behind the front desk.

“Hello, ladies. My name is Erik and this is Anna, the final contended for the position of private assistant—whittled down according to all of Mr. Bradley’s criteria.”

Another two jealous little things.

One of them got up with a sour face in order to escort us down the hallway to Mr. Bradley’s office.

“Welcome to Sunset Corporations,” she told Christina with a forced smile.

“Thank you,” Christina replied.

We both walked into Bradley’s office around early noon.

I left ten minutes in.

A little before that evening, I received a coded message from Timothy saying that the pictures were good quality.

The Sydney Opera House, 19:47 PM.

My Noa made her way into the magnificent building. Wow. First of all, the whole place has the most amazing lighting. It gave the whole cavernous place a wood-like look. Varnished wood. As if it were a modern, upgraded, futuristic Noah’s Ark. And a very cleverly planned arc, too. There was plenty of leg space in the hole where we were all about to sit. I sure did pity the architect of this building—if he were even still alive after what he went through with this. He was a true genius, there was no doubt about that.

The first thing that impressed me was the height of the ceiling. An average person, sitting on a standard chair, is approximately seventy, seventy-five centimeters. The ceiling was well over one-hundred meters. I wouldn’t want to meet the animal that lived inside a shell this large. Something that size could devour a whole village.

I once raised money for a distinguished professor who saved a whole galaxy. Seriously. It was a surgeon who saved two-thousand people, and you know what they say about those who save one soul…

Anyway, he’d always stroke his hand along the wooden wall of the lawyer’s office we used to go to. He loved the wooden walls in that office.

Wood is better than plastic. Even merely for the illusionary factor. It looked alive—not something from IKEA or low-grade stainless-steel. Wood has a past. It’s been sat on, watered, it’s listened to who knows how many lovers’ secrets. It could write a zoology book about insects and birds. It’s been pissed on, rained on, and it learned the difference between the two. It had leaves, diseases, weathered freezes and heat, and still it stood strong. That is, until it was cut down and made into a wall.

The way it is now, it doesn’t give out oxygen. Pity. Back then, we came over to raise three-hundred thousand dollars not to lower the amount of oxygen this world has.

If I was ever interested in having my own office, I’d copy-paste them according to that law firm’s place. They had such fantastic style… and they were so professional. That would make coming in to work a pleasure. And a pleasure for clients, too. They’d be getting the crème-de-la-crème, and I should know. I was a VIP client, after all.

I would think whoever built this insane monument had plenty of help. His workers probably not only made promises, but practically sold their lives. That’s a lot steeper of a price. I wonder how much the Australian dollar is compared to the shekel.

I made my way inside and sat in my appointed seat. I always like sitting at the back, that way you can see everyone in front of you, and you’re noticed a lot less. Not everyone is paranoid, only those who want to survive.

I sat in row number 138. It was raised a little from the center stage, where men and women who worked like donkeys, she ass’s and donkey foals their whole lives, persisted as mules as to what mattered, and did it honestly. Prancing around