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

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. What a rookie. Quick. I had to think fast. What the hell was I going to do? It was lost!

I’ll call Eran and ask him. He didn’t pick up. Timothy. He didn’t answer either.

I didn’t know what to do. I had to pull myself together. I couldn’t go to the police. How did I let him bump into me like that? Fifteen years in this business… god, what an idiot. God.

And my family… and the mortgages… I was finished.

I lay on the hotel bed and fell asleep in a matter of moments.

Gray light woke me at 05:37 AM.

I needed black coffee. I couldn’t see straight. Everything that happened yesterday came rushing back. Fuck, what a blunder.

The flight was a few hours out. At least I had my passport. I had another if there was an issue.

This was the saddest celebration I’d ever had in my life.

I got to Israel. Home.

I had to figure out my next move. It wasn’t like I was lacking anything, but I fucked myself over with more than four million dollars. Good grief.

Epilogue

The drive from the airport to Yavne wasn’t a long one, but it felt like an eternity.

I was so sick of these flights. I was sick of the stress that came with airports.

I was sick of having a flyover and being unsure if I’d end up using the return ticket… I was sick of the hotels. I was sick of leaving Shaked over and over. She thought her mother helped save animals, but her mother was more in the line of ending lives than saving them.

I felt half dead myself.

That prime minister was rather nice, though. I would call her a gentleman, but we know better.

I was sick of the neighborhood I lived in—having to park in the same parking lot over and over. It could make you lose your mind.

But most of all I was sick of Eran. My whole body vibrated when I thought of him.

Vibrations of anger. I hated him. He made me lose my mind. That pain. That chauvinistic pig. That egocentric prick.

That poor idealist. That clever, clever man. Who kept walking into walls with those blue eyes of his.

I loved him.

What was that app that showed where the closest psychiatrist was?

The son of a bitch hasn’t picked up in hours.

Maybe I should call and threaten his balls while asking about the nearest psychologist.

If I did, he would probably become the CEO of “Shrink.Com” in a matter of minutes.

He’d even invent an app or website like it, if needed. Men like him… all you need is to threaten those jewels.

Believe me, girls. Those men are all poor sods.

They have to work hard at all their attributes only to impress us, while us women only have to excel at one thing. It wouldn’t hurt to have other talents, but between us, the deals that are made under the sheets are the best ones.

Take myself as an example. Fifteen million for a week’s worth of work, and the best part, I was left holding nothing but a cock.

What was I supposed to tell my mother? My father? My brother? That hussy he called a wife?

Sometimes I think I work for her rather than for Timothy. Who also wasn’t picking up the goddamn phone.

What the hell was wrong with everyone?

“That’s one-hundred-and-twenty-three, ma’am,” the driver said. And to think, he didn’t even fill me in on who lost the singing competition last night. What a novelty.

I thought about it the whole time I was in Australia…. Ya think?

“It says one-hundred-and-twenty-two and thirty agorot. Why one-hundred-and-twenty-three?”

“I rounded it up for you.”

“You rounded it up for yourself.”

“What’s wrong with you? It’s seventy agorot!”

“Right, but that’s three hundred shekels a month for you. Give me seventy agorot change, please.”

“I don’t have it.”

“So, stop somewhere so you can get more change. You’re a taxi driver. What kind of shit is it that you can’t give back change?”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Just stop somewhere for change.”

“Stopping somewhere else will cost you extra.”

“That stop is on you, my friend.”

“You wish.”

“I’m really not the person to say that to.”

“Fine, just give me one-hundred-and-twenty-two. For fuck’s sake, I’ve got other appointments.”

“See, that’s the way you should round up. in my favor.”

“Sure, but don’t forget to add the six shekels for your suitcase.” He gave me an evil smile.

“Can’t lose to you, can we?”

“Honestly, I’m not married, honey. I’m not letting you out of here—I’m taking you straight to the Justice of the Peace.”

“You’re sweet. Truly.”

I got out of the taxi annoyed, but the driver had made me laugh. That’s something that could only happen in Israel, as we say. And that sentence usually only fits in America.

I got home. No one was there. Shakedi was at school.

What were all those post its?

Danny from the market called—I probably owed him money.

My mother…

My brother…

Rakefet from the bank…. What now? My account had five thousand plus… maybe the Visa from abroad was billed early? It’s bullshit. Doesn’t matter.

The only thing I wanted was to lie on a hammock under palm trees.

I usually did exactly as I wanted.

I went to take a shower.

Hopefully they left me some hot water.

The telephone ringing made me turn off the tap.

“Yeah?” I answered listlessly.

“Noa?”

“Yes, who’s this?”

“Hi, good morning. This is Rakefet from the bank. How are you, Noa? How was your trip?”

“Fine,” I replied. Did she take her pills this morning? What was up with her?

“Would you prefer the fifteen million in a monthly account, or would you like to come here and listen to the options we have to offer you? You know—investments and…”

That son of a bitch. That Eran is such a son of a bitch. He gave me a heart attack.

“I’ll be coming to the bank.”

When I got there, Eran was smoking in a corner. He made as if he hadn’t noticed me.

I walked over with a smile.

“I just need to go to the bank for a minute,” I said, the grin never fading. “Will I see you around?”

“Not if I see