The man’s cologne and my perfume clashed in the air. Masculine versus feminine. And now, I was longing for a stranger to touch me.
“I’d like to get laid tonight.”
Chanel’s abrupt statement had the Irishman clearing his throat. It was loud in the arena, but his surprised reaction made it clear he’d heard.
“Oh, really?” I eyed Chanel, amused by her bluntness. She’d also offered me a reprieve from my confused feelings about the stranger off to my left.
“I think you should, too. Birthday sex. Or at least, a midnight kiss when you turn twenty-one. You know, something sexy and romantic. Very fairy tale-esque. That’s what I want when it’s my big day,” Chanel went on, oblivious to the ogre off to her right staring at her like he might throw her over his shoulder and hightail it to his suite if she kept it up.
I lifted my chin and snarled on instinct, a warning to back off. He quickly returned his gaze to the fight as if he knew I was dangerous just by looking at me.
And hell, I was dangerous, wasn’t I?
Papà was a good man, fighting for justice, but there was still blood on his hands. Eventually, there’d be blood on my hands, too.
As Papà’s only child, I was expected to take the path he’d designed for me. It was meant to happen the day I turned twenty-one, too.
But for tonight, I wanted to follow Chanel’s advice and stop worrying. Stop assuming the hot Irish guy was sent to kill me. I wanted to momentarily forget the shackles of my family name.
“Honestly, you should be having a minimum of two orgasms a day, and preferably not by your own hand,” Chanel continued her sex lecture since I’d yet to respond. “I’m worried your uptight look means you haven’t even been getting yourself off.” She twirled a pink-tipped fingernail my way, swiveling on her seat to face me.
I rolled my eyes at her attempt to draw natural color to my cheeks when she knew damn well I was like her. We didn’t get embarrassed.
A flash of light had me turning on my seat and finding the man who’d taken a snapshot of the audience as he stood near a camerawoman panning her lens on the crowd.
I lowered my head and lifted the clutch in front of my face until the lens pointed another way.
That camera was probably more dangerous than the Irish guy or anyone else in the arena, for that matter. We were way too close to the action, and the last thing we needed was to wind up on television. Wow, I had not thought this night through.
Chanel whispered a mishmash of her mother’s native Greek and her father’s French beneath her breath, her assessment of my “situation” evident by the concerned expression on her face, and I remembered what we’d been talking about before my thoughts had taken a sharp turn.
Right. I need to get laid.
She dropped her eyes to my outfit and her mouth tightened in disapproval. “You’re too intimidating. I think you scare men off. That black halter top dips into a sharp V and shows your cleavage, but men are too damn afraid of you to actually check out your tits. Probably fear you’ll break their neck for looking.” She grinned, knowing I could and would hurt a man if he were to bother me. “And those tight-fitting black trousers paired with that ‘stay the fuck away’ smoky eye makeup scares them off. I’m just saying—”
“I’m not wearing all black.” I had to raise my voice over the music as Brock Lesnar, one of the main fighters, made his entrance, his theme song blasting.
“You should’ve gone with pink like I suggested. The red heels and lipstick are killer, but they scream that you’ll gladly grab a man by the balls and not in a good kind of way.”
“I’m not that intimidating.” Only when someone knew of my father did they back away. Well, usually. “Also, we can’t all have your flair.” I pointed to Chanel’s bright gold sequin top and matching gold shorts. Her boots were the show stealer, though. A mix of cowboy and porn star.
She popped up one shoulder and said first in French and then in English, “‘In order to be irreplaceable, one must always be different.’”
“Mm.” I smiled. “You and your Coco Chanel quotes.”
“What? Mama named me after her favorite designer. Coco’s an icon, and . . .” Her words faded