Page 3 of Merging Wright

“Pete,” I snap as I approach the reception desk, causing the older man to straighten.

“Mr. Wright.”

Jane slowly presses off the desk and turns to face me, meeting me square on with those brilliant blue eyes behind a sexy pair of yellow-rimmed eyeglasses. I look away. The accessory is a new addition to the torture of her daily office attire. Tight dresses. Form-fitting skirts. Blouses molding her breasts and always one button too low. Her walnut-colored hair contrasts with those eyes, and today she wears it in a loose twist at her nape, teasing me with the fine hairs that curl around the sides of her neck. Classy. Professional. Seductive.

But there’s no time for those thoughts.

“And?” I bark, scanning the lobby for the mysterious package.

“It’s out there.” Jane points toward the floor-to-ceiling windows.

On the street is the rush of people at noon, a few parallel parked vehicles with their hazard lights on—presumably delivery drivers—and a flatbed truck with a classic pickup truck on it.

“I don’t—” I double back to the pickup atop the larger vehicle.

The exterior is robin’s egg blue with a dirty-white strip along the door panel and bed. A pair of fuzzy dice are distinguishable and hanging off the rearview mirror. The boxy, large cab is reminiscent of decades passed. The bench seat is light brown leather which I don’t need to see to know it exists in the interior.

“What the—” My throat tightens.

“Mr. Wright?” Jane’s voice filters through my ears but doesn’t register clearly. The smoky sound distorts as I step forward, slowly, cautiously, taking in the 1976 Chevrolet C10 Cheyenne pickup truck. The vehicle is nearly as old as me.

Along with most everything else in my life, I’d left the thing I’d worked the hardest on as a teenager where it belonged—in the past.

Once I’ve stepped outside, I snap at the delivery driver waiting on the sidewalk with a tablet in his hand. “Is this some kind of joke? Get that thing out of here.” I flick my wrist as if it will make the flatbed and all disappear.

The younger man looks up at me, eyes wide. “I’m waiting on the recipient to claim it.”

“I’m the recipient, and I’m refusing delivery.”

For a moment, the man looks flustered, uncertain even. What happens when one rejects the delivery of a classic truck that holds more history than the skyscraper at my back?

“Mach,” Jane says behind me.

“No.” I turn on her. I vibrate with memories I don’t want retrieved suddenly stirring up like dust in a rarely visited attic. “This doesn’t concern you. Go back inside.”

Get back to fucking work, I want to scream at her, even though she doesn’t deserve my wrath.

“Are you Machlan Wright?” the delivery guy questions, and I spin back to him.

“No,” I state at the same time as Jane steps forward and responds in the affirmative.

“Sign here and here.” He’s holding out the tablet, but my arms won’t work. My muscles refuse to lift my limbs.

Jane rounds me and reaches for the device, but the man retracts it.

“It has to be him.” He nods at me.

What the hell is happening? The last time I saw this truck, it was not in its present condition. I close my eyes against memories of broken glass, deep dents, and screams in my head.

“I can’t accept it here.” My rough and raspy voice is unrecognizable. My heart races like tires on loose gravel. My palms sweat as if I can feel the bumpy grip of the steering wheel underneath my hand.

The delivery man double checks something on his screen before narrowing his eyes at the building behind me. “This is the address. End of the road for me.”

“Just give me the tablet.” Jane steps closer to him, and he flinches. There’s that take-charge voice, the one about to put him in his place. She snatches the device from his hands and swipes what I imagine is her best impression of my signature across the bottom of the screen. Her acceptance in my name must appease Delivery Guy because he circles around the back of the flatbed, and the heavy scrape of chains rattles on the pavement.

“What are you doing?” I finally muster, crossing the sidewalk to him.

“Drop off.” He pulls two ramps from beneath the flat portion of the larger truck, lowering them to the street.