Free Infinite Repeat by Paula Stokes

few kinks. Love, A.
    In St. Louis if you need a cab you call one and they pick you up. I don’t know the first thing about hailing a cab in Chicago. I mean, I’ve seen it in movies. You just step out in the street and wave your hand. But when I exit the station and try that move, the first two cabs drive by without slowing and the third one almost runs me over.
    After two more failed attempts, I decide to just use my GPS and walk to the club. The brisk wind swirls between the buildings, blowing my shirt out from my body and my hair forward into my eyes. I rub my hands back and forth over my forearms. Probably should have worn a sweatshirt. Oh well. I’ll have Amber to keep me warm later. My lips quirk into a smile as I think about it.
    Another gust of wind blows a crumpled paper bag from the top of an open trash can out into the street. I watch it pitch and roll across two lanes of traffic like an urban tumbleweed. I can tell when I’m getting close to the club because there are groups of kids dressed in jeans and concert T-shirts all heading in the same direction.
    WyldNytes turns out to be a two-story brick building, butted up close to restaurants on either side. The front windows are papered over with flyers for upcoming shows. Just seeing that reminds me of my favorite club back in Hazelton. When I slip inside, I immediately feel even more at home. The dim lights, the buzzing of the crowd, the scent of smoke and sweat and beer—it all speaks to me on the most basic level.
    A bouncer pats me down, scans my ticket, and then directs me to the floor seating. I stop outside the entrance to the lower part of the club and text Amber again.
    I made it. Where are you?
    Amber appears from a hallway a few minutes later. She’s got her hair in two fishbone braids and is wearing a shimmery blue dress that I’m betting someone picked out for her. “Micah!” She swoops me into a hug.
    I squeeze her tightly, lifting her a few inches into the air before letting her go. She giggles and then directs me to follow her backstage. Man, I love the sound of her laugh.
    The backstage area has a couple of couches, a TV, and a table of food. The rest of Arachne’s Revenge are sprawled out on one of the couches—Nate and Damien playing video games while Eli just kind of sits back in the corner and takes in the scene. Assorted people I’ve never seen before are milling around the room, most of them with laminated badges clipped to their belt loops. I try not to think about going backstage with my dad. This is Amber’s night. I can’t make it about me.
    She lowers her voice. “You’re not going to start something with Nate, are you? I’m nervous about the show and it would help if I didn’t have to worry about you too.”
    “I promise I’ll be good.”
    “Perfecto. Come meet Janne.”
    I give Nate and the other guys in the band a nod as Amber half drags me across the room to where a tall blond guy with slicked back hair is talking on a Bluetooth headset and gesturing wildly with one hand.
    He holds up one finger to us and I immediately decide I don’t like him. Which is not like me—I generally don’t care one way or the other about most people. But really, does this guy think we’re going to interrupt his important phone call?
    Amber and I wait patiently while the guy goes on and on about getting wine delivered somewhere later. Then he turns to us and smiles one of those Hollywood Insider barracuda smiles. “Heeeey,” he says, drawing out the word as he shakes my hand. “I’m Janne Masterson. You must be Amber’s friend Micah.”
    And now I like him even less.
    “Boyfriend,” Amber says and gives Janne a look.
    “Yeah, hon.” He dismisses her words with a wave of his hand. “Just not for the press, remember? Arachne’s Revenge will sell more records if boys can fantasize about that sweet little mouth of yours.”
    I cough into my hand. “Don’t you think the music will sell itself?”
    “Sure, kid,” Janne says.