Two hours late, to be exact. The light rail left you at the platform in the middle of nowhere, and the label on the demo CD in your bag says Sunset Sound — Studio B, 3:00 sharp. Your watch says 4:58.

The building in front of you is the exact kind of beige you'd expect from a corporate office park. There's a lone palm tree in the parking lot with a sign duct-taped to its trunk that reads NO VISITORS BEYOND LOBBY, faded, half-unstuck.

The lobby is cold—over-air-conditioned, the way all of Los Angeles pretends it isn't still 60 degrees in November. There's a receptionist with a silver bob and a headset, a framed gold record on the wall, and a thick glass door with a keycard reader beside it.

No one's at the front desk when the doors slide open behind you.

Two blonds walk in.

One of them is built—tall, broad through the shoulders, hoodie pulled up over what looks like two pounds of hair product. The other is smaller, leaner, drowning in an oversized brown leather jacket, and he's the one staring at you.