Allison’s grinning like the cat that ate the canary, staring at me across the greasy diner table. She’s an art director at a Chicago ad agency.

She lays it out: Tom Horn Smokeless Tobacco needs new faces.

“Think you’ve got what it takes?” she asks.

I sip my coffee, thinking about my rent, bills, and half-paid-off Harley parked outside and all those suck-ass nights behind the bar, pretending to enjoy serving booze to frat boys and Lincoln Park trixies.

“Pay any good?” I ask, playing it cool like McQueen in a getaway car.

“Pays enough to get you out from behind that bar,” she says.

Allison must see something in me other than a 30-year-old bartender riding life’s rough road. Maybe I’ll try it. Hell, I might even take my clothes off for the right price.

I meet the casting director, an excruciatingly well-groomed guy named Mr. Jones with a Harvard accent and a Vassar attitude. He eyes me like I’m fresh meat or maybe yesterday’s leftovers.

“Allison tells me you exude a certain charm,” he says, making “charm” sound like something linked to herpes.

Pay’s more than good. It’s damn good. I sign the contract, fill out a form for direct deposit, and we shake hands. Allison’s smiling like she’s won the lottery.

“Ready for the big time?” she asks as we walk toward our bikes.

“Born ready,” I say.

Copyright © 2023 L.T. Hanlon

I start the night under Sturgis’ churning skies, drinking like drowning, figuring I’d spend the night under some godforsaken overpass.

But Lady Luck, that harsh mistress, has other plans.

At closing, Allison — pure Manhattan fireworks in the form of a blonde bombshell — saunters in. She plays coy, all curves and smiles, evaluating the men like a fat chick choosing a Spirit Airlines seat.

She finally reaches the patio. “You’ll freeze out here, you idiot,” she says, reaching for my hand.

Now here we are, in her company’s sprawling hospitality tent, more extravagant than my one-room Rogers Park rathole back home.

Around us, the rain slaps canvas like a drunk looking for a fight, and the cool wind teases goosebumps from my skin.

Folks around us are grousing about the weather, but Allison and I are talking bikes, roads, everything, and nothing. No mushy crap, no whispers or longing looks. Just two strangers nuzzling like two old hounds under a porch in the rain, finding solace and maybe a little more in the comforting scent of wet leather and shared dreams.

Tonight isn’t romance. It’s the whiskey-kissed breeze, the thunderous applause of the storm, and the woman who, against all odds, shared her shelter with me.

And as the world outside turns into an ocean worthy of a goddamn Noah’s Ark, I grin because I’ve got Allison, the storm, and this ridiculous canvas castle.

Sturgis, you unpredictable bitch, you sure know how to keep a guy guessing.

Copyright © 2023 L.T. Hanlon