“What do you think you’re doing?”
Mark turns to see Bill Silva, his slick, smooth-talking manager. A bit paunchy, with curly, shoulder-length brown hair, he’s wearing a charcoal blazer and a pair of designer jeans.
“What?” Mark asks, mid swallow. “I’m starving, man!”
“I told you I booked us a table for lunch at Marcelle’s.”
“So?”
“Gator, Gator, Gator,” Bill says, gently taking the cheese and cookies from his star client’s hands. “Let me ask you something. Would you ever fill up your Lamborghini with anything less than high-octane premium gasoline?”
Mark gives his manager a sideways look. “Uh, I don’t have a Lambo.”
Bill smiles. “Wait till I run through the latest numbers with you. You could.”
Thirty minutes later, the two are tearing into lobsters on the breezy outdoor patio of a high-end bistro in San Diego’s upscale Gaslamp District. Most of their fellow diners are businessmen and -women in conservative suits. Mark stands out in his garish T-shirt and board shorts, but instead of feeling self-conscious, he’s reveling in the irritated glances and whispers he’s getting.
Bill is holding up a magazine and reading aloud from it. “‘When I’m skating with my bros, having a good session, fully sweatin’ and pumpin’ out and rippin’, there’s like this little volcano inside me that’s driving me and heating me. It’s better than anything.’” Bill shuts the magazine. “Is that true, Gator? You got a volcano in you when you skate?”
“Hell, yeah. I got a fire in me all the time, to be honest. I feel it even more when I’m on my board. But I thought that interview wasn’t coming out till the fall.”
Bill tosses the magazine across the table. “Hot off the presses. An early copy.”
“No way! Rad!”
It’s the July 1987 issue of Thrasher, a prominent skateboarding magazine with a circulation of a few hundred thousand. On the cover is an action shot of Mark suspended in midair, doing a cool vert trick in an empty swimming pool.
Mark admires the photograph for a moment, and then thumbs to his multipage interview and starts skimming it.
Bill smirks. “I told you I’d make you a cover model, didn’t I? But this is just the beginning, Gator. I’ve got big plans for you and the other guys. Really big.”
Mark sets down the magazine, curious. “What kind of plans?”
“First, let’s go over where we stand. Your Gator-branded skate decks are flying off the shelves. Skate shops across the country can’t restock them fast enough.”
“Sweet! I make a buck on every sale, right?”
“Two bucks. And we’re talking around seven thousand units selling every month. That doesn’t include the royalties I negotiated for you on your Gator-branded T-shirts, Gator hats, Gator stickers, Gator fanny packs. Toss in your modeling contracts and endorsement deals? You’re doing pretty well for yourself, my friend. Pretty well indeed.”
Mark nods and grins. “Of course I am. People freakin’ love me!”
Bill takes a sip of sparkling water. “Exactly. And now I want to show advertisers just how many people love you. It’s your fan base that makes you so special. And so profitable.” Bill leans forward in his seat. “So here’s what I’m thinking. I want to take you and some of the other extreme athletes I represent on the road. What do you think?”
“You mean, like…do more skate demos and press events?”
“No, no, no. Way bigger. I’m talking, like, touring rock star–level big! I’d put together a whole traveling show. A whole skating experience. Lights, music, pyrotechnics—the whole deal. We’d fill arenas all over the country. All over the world!”
Mark has never seen his manager this amped up before. But he’s intrigued. Could I really achieve that level of global fame and celebrity?
“It would do wonders for your girlfriend’s career, too,” Bill adds. “Becky, right?”
“Brandi.”
“If you got just a few more sponsors backing you? And if she’s really as smokin’ hot as you keep bragging about—”
“She is, man. Trust me.”
“I bet I could start booking you guys some shoots together. As a pair.”
“Seriously?”
“Oh, yeah. I can see it now. You’d be one of the hottest couples in the world. Move over, Jagger and Jerry. Here comes Gator and Brandi!”
Mark lets that even wilder notion sink in for a moment. Then he kicks back in his chair and slurps down a meaty chunk of lobster.
“Silva, I freakin’ love it. We’re in!”
Chapter 5
Summer 1987
When the captain announces they’re making their initial descent into San Diego, Brandi McClain tightens her grip on her armrests.
Not out of nerves. Out of sheer excitement.
Two weeks ago, Mark Rogowski, her long-distance boyfriend of a couple of months, told her he had bought her a plane ticket to come visit him for the weekend. Since then, she’s been counting down the minutes until she gets to see him.
Mark has done this for Brandi a few times before. He’s traveled to Arizona twice himself, too. But as Brandi giddily told her best friend, Jessica Bergsten, on the phone last night while she was packing, something about this trip feels…different to her. In a good way. She’s sure of it, even if she can’t quite put her finger on why.
Maybe, Jessica suggested, it’s because this may well be the last “visit” to California Brandi ever makes, since she plans to move to San Diego permanently in just a few weeks now that she’s graduated high school.
Stepping into the bustling terminal, Brandi feels her anticipation bubbling up even more. Scanning the crowd for her boyfriend, she takes a few slow, deep breaths to keep herself from trembling.
Mark spots her first and bounds up to her. Before she can say a word, he takes her in his muscular arms and literally sweeps her off her feet.
“Damn, baby, you get more gorgeous every time I see you!”
He sets Brandi down and the two kiss. They are deeply, feverishly in love.
In the airport’s short-term-parking garage, Mark casually carries Brandi’s luggage past a sparkling white Mercedes-Benz convertible—and then stops, smiles, turns around, and pops the trunk. Brandi is surprised. Mark didn’t own this car the last time she visited.
“Nice wheels,” she says cheekily. “Bet this thing’s a real chick magnet.”
Just as cheekily, Mark replies, “I wouldn’t know. It’s not mine.”
He tosses Brandi the keys.
Brandi’s smile fades to shock as she realizes what’s happening.
“Wait…Hang on…Mark…you don’t mean—”
“Think of it as a little congratulations present.”
“But…but…congratulations for what?”
“I showed Bill that new batch of headshots you sent me. He loves ’em! Says he’s already forwarded them to a few local modeling agents he knows and a bunch want to meet with you. You’ll be booking jobs in no time.”
“No way…Really?!”
“Yep. And I can’t have my girlfriend showing up to the set in a rust bucket, can I?”
“Mark, I…I love it. Thank you!”
In an instant, Brandi is back in his arms, their lips pressed tightly together again. She feels so overwhelmed with joy and gratitude, she nearly breaks down in tears.
“Besides, you’ll be moving out here in a couple weeks, right? That’s still the plan?”
“Of course!” Brandi exclaims. “Didn’t you say you’d help take me to check out some apartments this weekend?”
Mark smiles. “That reminds me. I have another surprise for you.”
Speeding up the scenic I-5 freeway with her new convertible’s top down and her long blond hair fluttering wildly in the deafening wind, Brandi keeps stealing inquisitive glances at Mark in the passenger seat. He’s got his seat reclined and his bare feet resting on the dashboard.
Noticing a sign for Del Mar Heights Roa
d, which she knows is near Mark’s place, she yells, “I take exit 34, right?!”
Mischievously, he shakes his head. “Fifty-one B!”
Brandi doesn’t know San Diego too well yet, but that sounds awfully far from Mark’s apartment. What could this surprise possibly be?
Nearly an hour later, she’s still following Mark’s directions and turns onto a long, winding gravel road. It slices through lush, rolling hills, which are dotted with avocado tree groves that seem to stretch on forever.
With muted awe, Brandi asks, “Where are we?”
“On the map it’s called Fallbrook,” Mark answers. “But to me, it’s heaven.”
Finally Brandi pulls into a hidden driveway. At the end is an enormous house unlike any she’s seen before. It’s tall and narrow, built mostly of wood, with a cylindrical, barrel-shape design.
“Okay, Mark, are you gonna tell me what’s going on?”
“Nope. I’m gonna show you.”
The two exit the convertible and Mark leads Brandi into the house. The inside is even more cavernous than she guessed it would be when she was outside. A central spiral staircase stretches from the ground floor to the top, with various rooms and landings branching off like tree houses connected to the trunk of a mighty oak.
“So?” Mark asks.
“What is this place?”
“My new home! What do you think?”
“You bought it? It’s amazing! But…it seems like a lot of space for one person.”
“Or the perfect amount for two. What would you think about moving in together?”
Brandi’s chin drops. “Are you serious?!”
“Why not? You could cram into a shoebox with a bunch of random roommates, or you could live in a mansion on a dozen acres with your boyfriend. What do you say?”
Brandi’s mouth is still hanging open, but she doesn’t make a sound. She can’t. The plane ticket, the modeling agents, the new car, and now this?
It’s too much! It’s almost too good to be true.
“I mean, I should probably ask my parents first,” Brandi says ruefully. Then her voice echoes across the empty structure as she yells, “But my answer is yes, yes, yes!”
Within seconds, she and Mark are in each other’s arms once again—this time on the bare floor of their future living room, where they are madly shedding their clothes.
Chapter 6
Brandi McClain twirls a springy blond curl around her finger. She runs her tongue seductively across her upper teeth.
“Work it, girl!” says the photographer. “You look stunning! You’re a natural!”
It would certainly seem that way.
Since moving to San Diego—and moving in with her boyfriend, Mark Rogowski—a few months ago, Brandi has been booking local modeling jobs left and right. She hasn’t broken through onto the national scene yet, but she’s well on her way.
The rest of her fairy-tale new life has been falling into place just as smoothly. Mark let her take the lead in furnishing and decorating their quirky Fallbrook house, which she’s since turned into a warm and inviting home. And while it took some getting used to after growing up in the suburbs in the Arizona desert, Brandi finds living in such a lush, quiet, rural area to be both peaceful and energizing.
Good thing, too, because she and Mark sure do burn a lot of energy together.
When she first told Jessica that she and Mark would be moving in together, Jessica asked whether Brandi was worried that sharing a roof might dim the couple’s flame. Brandi admitted she was.
Fortunately, cohabitating has had the exact opposite effect. After dating long-distance for so many agonizing months, Brandi and Mark can’t keep their hands off each other. The love—and lust—they share seems to grow more intense every day.
Finally, after four hours, two wardrobe changes, and three hair and makeup retouches, Brandi’s photo shoot wraps for the day and she heads home. Pulling up in her white Mercedes convertible, she sees two cars she recognizes parked in the driveway. They belong to Mark’s buddies Christian Hosoi and Tony Hawk.
Sure enough, she finds the three sprawled on the TV room sofa, controllers in hand, playing Nintendo. On the coffee table rests a small mountain of empty beer cans, which might help explain the extra-rowdy atmosphere.
“Dude, watch out for those falling spikes!” Christian cries.
“I see them, idiot!” snaps Tony. “I’m going for the extra power-up!”
“Hi, guys,” she calls to her houseguests. “What’s up?”
“Hey, baby,” Mark hollers back. “How was the shoot?”
“It went great! Thanks for asking. I think they liked me.”
“Of course they did,” Mark says, smiling at her warmly. “You’re gorgeous, you’re talented, you’re—”
Christian tosses his remote in frustration. “Damn it, Gator, they ate you! Now we gotta start the level over. Pay attention!”
“Chill out, man, would you? My beautiful girlfriend just got home. Think I’d rather look at her…or mutant aliens?”
Brandi walks up the spiral staircase and into her and Mark’s bedroom.
Their bed is unmade, their sheets still tangled from a wild romp they had that morning. She smiles to herself at the memory.
A few piles of clothing are heaped around the room. Even though their home has lots of closets, Brandi and Mark each receive so much free apparel from their modeling shoots—especially Gator-branded Vision Street Wear—that they simply don’t have enough space for it all.
Brandi is in the attached master bathroom, taking off her makeup in the mirror, when she hears the bedroom door creak open.
“Baby?” she says. No answer. “Mark? Is that you?”
Concerned, Brandi reenters the bedroom.
Mark is holding a can of beer, standing in the doorway. Silently. Ominously.
The warmth and good humor he exuded just minutes earlier is completely gone. His face is now etched with dark emotions. Suspicion. Jealousy. Anger.
In a soft but vicious growl he says, “Where the hell have you been?!”
The question—and tone—startles Brandi greatly. In the ten months they’ve been dating, she has never, ever seen this side of him, even when he’s been drinking.
She responds calmly. “Where have I been? What do you mean? I was working.”
“You told me you’d be back by four. It’s after five!”
“Okay. Sorry. The shoot ran a little long. Then traffic on the freeway was—”
Mark steps into the bedroom and shuts the door.
Brandi instinctively takes a step back.
“Bullshit!”
The word slices through Brandi like a hot knife.
“Mark…where is this coming from? Why are you so angry? What did I do?”
Mark takes a long, sloppy slug of beer, wipes his mouth with his sleeve.
“That’s what I wanna know! If you’re living in my house, you’re not gonna lie to me! I always want to know where you are. Always! Is that clear?!”
Brandi just stands there. Confused. Scared. Desperate to defuse the situation before it gets any worse.
“I…I’m not lying, Mark,” she pleads. “I swear. I love you. I would never—”
Mark hurls his half-full beer can across the bedroom. It smashes against the far wall with a metallic crunch.
“Shut up! Just shut up! Shut the f—”
Mark lunges toward Brandi, but suddenly stops himself dead in his tracks.
He stumbles backward a bit. Then looks up at Brandi. And chuckles.
Instantly, he’s back to his old, charming self again. As if he’s just woken up from some kind of trance.
“Aw, you know I’m only kidding, baby. I just miss you when you’re gone!”
Brandi, more unsettled and alarmed than ever, returns a nervous smile.
“Sure. Yeah. I miss you too, Mark.”
Mark nods. Then, sheepishly, embarrassed, he opens the bedroom door, shuffles out, and pads back down the spiral s
taircase.
As soon as he’s gone, Brandi shuts and locks the bedroom door, something she’s never done before.
She’s overcome with relief—as well as a creeping sense of dread.
What in God’s name just happened?!
Chapter 7
Spring 1989
Mark Rogowski didn’t think he had a fear of heights—until now.
He’s standing on the narrow platform of a giant half-pipe that’s been built mere inches from the edge of a steep cliff in Los Angeles. It’s been positioned to perfectly overlook the endless urban sprawl stretching across the San Fernando Valley below.
On a clear day like today, the view is breathtaking—and more than a little nerve-racking. But Mark tries to ignore that and focus on the job at hand.
“Roll camera…and…action!”
On the director’s cue, Mark steps onto his skateboard, speeds down the ramp, and begins performing a series of astonishing aerial vert tricks. His girlfriend of the past two years, Brandi McClain, and a handful of other young models and skateboarders all watch and cheer him on.
Out of the corner of Mark’s eye, he sees a black convertible with red leather trim slowly pull up in front of the half-pipe. It’s driven by a man with shoulder-length blond hair, dark sunglasses, a black cap, and a floral-print jacket.
The other skaters soon join Mark in zooming up and down the ramp. Brandi and the rest of the models continue hooting and hollering even as the man starts singing over a backing track that wafts across the hillside: “And I’m free…free fallin’! Yeah, I’m free…free fallin’!”
The singer is Tom Petty. The shoot is part of a music video for a track on Petty’s debut solo album. The video is for the song “Free Fallin’,” to be released as a single later this year.
“And…cut! Let’s take five!”
The skaters stop skating. The models stop cheering. As a production assistant reverses Tom’s car back to its starting position, Mark, Brandi, and the others climb down off the ramp. They’re immediately swarmed by a team of makeup artists and hair stylists.
Till Murder Do Us Part Page 13