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

see the benefit mankind would gain from eating meat.”

“He also asked Freud if international conflicts could be mediated through the use of psychology—so what if he said it?” the Australian prime minister said in despair.

“What’s wrong with that?” I asked.

“You don’t want to know,” she answered.

“I do. I convince myself as to what I want and if everyone would follow my lead, then that would be what everyone wants. No?”

“Different people want different things,” she said, filled with confidence and experience.

“People want the same exact thing, no matter what corner of the world they’re from,” I said with my own righteous confidence.

“There is truth to that,” she replied and looked at me, clearly deep in thought.

Dr. Miranda Teperson and I, Noa from Yavne, sat on a brown leather sofa in the room. It wasn’t precisely a normal room, if you got my drift. A normal room had a door or two—not five, and didn’t have a suspicious-looking carpet crease that looked nothing like the carpets in my home, because I didn’t have anything hiding under the carpet like my companion for the night. Short as I hoped it would be.

There was a knock at the door. What now?

It was a personal assistant. More like a personal disturber. His eyes practically danced in their sockets. I was pretty sure it was some medical condition. This time, it had nothing to do with me. He looked like a parrot. Was a Jako parrot Australian?

I sure hope she doesn’t think I’m merely a friend planning on sleeping over on a sofa-bed. I scoffed to myself as I noticed the hinges on the fancy couch.

She thinks I’m a child.

“Would you like something to drink?” the massive continent’s prime minister asked me.

“I would love one,” I answered.

“What will you have?”

“Water.”

“Water? With all place has to offer?” She smiled at me generously.

“Yes,” I replied while showing off the tattoo on the first third of my leg. Her glass moved. I noticed. I had another two tattoos further up. Having a backup was never a bad idea.

“What’s that tattoo?” asked the prime minister.

“It’s a long story,” I answered mysteriously.

“And the night is long.” She sat to my right and put her left hand—the one with a diamond the size of your head—on my leg. The same one that originated in Morasha.

“There’s another one where that came from.” I smiled and widened the slit of my dress.

“Did you ever participate in sports?” the woman who could have been my mother asked.

“I’ve yet to have tried any extreme Australian sports,” I said and let my hair down.

Every girl knows that those who play with their hair are doing it on purpose in order to seduce. And my hair flows like you wouldn’t believe. I personally know people who lost their minds over it.

After learning chess, you should learn how to surf. I can’t explain everything.

“So you’re naughty, not only beautiful,” she said and held out water of a brand I was unfamiliar with. Interesting. I’d have to remember the logo.

“You can be naughty with me,” I replied playfully while accentuating my butt.

Why was she walking behind me? Where was she going now?

Well then… a stroke to my neck… a kiss to my ear…

Why are you sneaking around behind me? Are you planning on copying off my test?

Come forward like a man. Touch. Be serious, like me.

I jumped her.

I have to explain what I mean when I say I jumped her (or him).

It’s not like I’m the green man or Steve Austin. Listen up. This jump takes precisely three seconds. Three stages in three seconds. The Weisberg method: get your notes ready, girls.

Firstly, a quick opening of my blouse, together with a pre-prepared bra that is fit to bursting, my tits practically screaming to be saved before they spill out. The throbbing vein on my right breast would make even Hugh Hefner drop dead, were he alive to see it, of course. The second stage includes three stalking steps towards the prey, then the third is a kiss—though it’s better to ask the one being kissed regarding his experience kissing me. The kisser can’t truly comment on his methods. The pile of mush left behind can attest to it just fine.

Two hours later a message came through from Timothy saying that the prime minister has cellulite.

Chapter Twenty-One

When I walked into our hotel room, Eran was sitting on the chair next to a glass table. He had his signature cigarette and overflowing ashtray. There were even two cigarettes on the floor. That also wasn’t something new when it came to his habits. He could pass by something lying on the floor for over a week without thinking about picking it up. Regardless, though, he’ll do a ridiculous spring clean and have each and every cloth peg in its rightful place. But things he leaves lying around… he keeps thinking about them, then ends up cleaning better than any housekeeper ever would.

“So, another victim in your clutches?” he asked me in an odd tone.

“Well,” I started with a smile, “You know that when I put my eye on something or someone…. Then he’ll fall in the end. With all due respect, it’s not specific only to you.”

“Don’t get me wrong, yeah? You know I’m crushing on you hard, but I’m sure I’m not the only person on earth who’s fallen for a woman like you.”

“I beg your pardon?” I said, putting my hand on my hip, making all my attributes pop.

“Pardon what? Did I say something against you?” he asked, surprised.

“Sure,” I replied.

“How so?”

“I don’t know.” And I didn’t know what to say. He was right, in the end.

“You’re here for the money, Noa. Not because of compassion, empathy, and definitely not because of love.”

“What’s the matter with you?”

“Me? Nothing.”

“Then why are you angry?”

“I’m not angry. I simply get people. Why would I be angry with you? You’re hotter than hell, you’re smart, experienced, you’re perfect—and I know perfection. You do, too, I suppose. Your boss is like that.”

“Really? You’re bringing