He drops an ankle on the opposite knee and sucks down an Americano, tapping a rhythm with his fingers on the leather armrest. He’s been working with Catharsis on their latest project, and Rod, their sound engineer, sent him a recent track the band had recorded. Dylan didn’t like being away while Catharsis was in the booth, but Sharon, a junior producer he’d hired last year, filled in. She got things done, and she was able to get the best out of the band. The track is lit, and his gut tells him it’ll get plenty of airplay. He listened to it on repeat for a decent portion of his flight.

Chase stabs his keyboard, finishing an email, then slaps his laptop closed and leans way back in his chair. Shoving both hands into his hair, elbows wide as he stretches his upper back, he groans, exasperated. “iTunes will be the death of me. I’m so over dealing with them.”

Dylan doubts that will happen anytime soon. If anything, Chase will be working more closely with them. iTunes is the present and future of twenty-first-century music distribution.

He leans to the side, picks up the cup he set on the floor. “Got something for you.”

“A brick-and-mortar record store?”

“Ha! No. Coffee.” Dylan hands off the iced blend he picked up at Peet’s for Chase.

“I’d kill to work in this industry back in the eighties. Simpler times. Simpler deals. No auto-tune.”

“Same crappy digs. More competition.”

“Whatever.” Chase rolls his eyes and drinks the beverage, sets aside the half-empty plastic cup on a stack of manila folders. “New York. Talk to me.”

“Found a spot in Chelsea.” Dylan drops his foot and leans forward. The space has windows, which is ideal. He can’t work in a windowless box of an office. It stunts his creativity. “The lease comes in way under budget, so we got more grands reserved for tech. We can pack that place with gear that would make Grips drool.”

Fred “Grips” Merrick is a master engineer Dylan’s been trying to wear down and win over to Westfield for months. Only problem? Grips has a sweet setup at Atlanta Records.

“Did you get a chance to meet with him?” Chase asks.

“He had to leave town last minute. Got a call lined up with him tomorrow afternoon.” He shows Chase crossed fingers. “He should take our offer more seriously once we sign the lease and we let him pick out his tech.”

Right now, though, all Dylan wants is to go home and crash in his Santa Monica condo. When he wasn’t in meetings while in New York or being towed around to view available space, he was hitting music hotspots late into the night because that’s what he does: watches and listens, all the time. The next PJ Harvey or Bon Iver is out there waiting for him to flip them his business card.