CHAPTER 1
Evander
London
My happy place has a street address.
It’s 221/2Savile Row, Mayfair, the home of Anglin & Harte Bespoke Tailors.I’m standing on the step riser as the most talented hands on the planet adjust the hem of a pair of worsted wool trousers in my preferred shade of smoky dark blue.
I’ve been told the color complements my eyes.
The expert hands are those of my personal tailor, Julian Henry, a man I would trust with my life.Of course, I would.I trust him with my suits, don’t I?
It is no small feat to custom-fit clothing for a man like me.I’m overly muscular, six-foot-four, two-forty, and pathologically particular.
That’s the term my oldest brother, Cal, uses to describe me, anyway.He’s not wrong, and I’m not ashamed to admit it.
I’ve been called much worse.
“And how about now, Mr.MacLaine?”Julian stands.
I examine my reflection in the huge mirror, the shop’s rich polished mahogany and sparkling glass shelving behind me.
“Perfect,” I say.
With the slim, modern cut of this suit, the trouser should hang just at the top of my Italian loafers, with no break in the fabric.Which it now does.
“Thank you, Julian.”
“Of course, Mr.MacLaine.It’s always a pleasure.”
A few moments later, I make arrangements with shop personnel to have my new wardrobe shipped home to Yosemite Ranch.I’ve purchased two autumn/winter-weight worsted wool three-piece suits, one in dark charcoal and one in the blue; a pastel gray summer weight suit in merino wool twill; a custom fitted seersucker suit jacket I can wear with jeans; one pair of corduroys; three pairs of navy slim-fit casual trousers; three pairs of heavyweight denim jeans for ranch work; nine shirts of the finest cotton—two pale blue, five white, and two pinstripe—one blue and one gray.
I’ve also purchased six silk ties, ten pairs of custom socks, ten pairs of custom boxer briefs, and ten undershirts, all of the highest-quality materials money can buy.
My baby brother Kevin—or Special K, as we call him—once said I’m better groomed than a best-in-show French poodle.
Again, I see nothing wrong with that assessment.
Yes, I’m a former Navy SEAL, like all my brothers.But these days, I’m also an attorney.I represent my family’s business interests in the States and abroad, for both ranching operations and our wildly successful tech company.
I hardly think I should be out here negotiating billion-dollar deals while sporting shit kickers and overalls.
My next oldest brother, Finn—who’s about to get married—says I need to find a happy medium somewhere between George Clooney and Chris Farley.And my next youngest brother, Declan, tells me I’m an obsessive-compulsive fashionista.
Those two bug the shit out of me.Always have.Always will.
For good reason.
I’m the middle son, squeezed in between Finn and Declan as tight as human biology will allow.They’ve been up my ass my entire life.
It’s true that they invented the surveillance tech that’s made us all billionaires, so I suppose I should cut them some slack.Fine.But that doesn’t change the fact that they’re assholes.Plus, they don’t know how to dress.
I dated a PhD psychology student while I was in law school.Over Chinese takeout one night, she told me I suffered from a classic case of middle-child syndrome.She called me an ultra-over-achiever determined to avoid mediocrity.She said my biggest fear was that I’d blend into the woodwork.
I told her she was wrong.That I’m not afraid of anything.Not death.Not mediocrity.Not woodwork.Nothing.
She broke up with me soon after.
