The Knicks game on the television, the multiple liquor-infused, high-pitched conversations, and the old school rap song, “Da Rockwilder” by Method Man and Redman, faded into the background. The latter signaled the depths of Richie’s transfixed state, because that beat was so sick, he’d used the track as the foundation for the six-hour party mix his sound system was currently blasting.
His pulse quickened as he scanned the three pairs of smooth and delicately plump legs that moved with those shoes. The trio donned skirts that ended just below round hips, midriff-baring tops, and high ponytails. Full lips and prominent cheekbones completed their exquisite faces. Their deep brown skin was taut and blemish-free, resembling the complexions of the exotic dancers at the clubs he and his boys frequented.
Perfection.
Almost too perfect.
Ripped from his fantasies. Literally. How could that be?
He would have asked how he’d gotten so lucky, but it occurred to him that he didn’t recognize the silently grinning girls, and therefore couldn’t have invited them to his twentieth birthday party at the thousand-square-foot off-campus digs his parents had purchased for him. But that wasn’t even the thing that unnerved him. What startled Richie was the way the trio took a few steps forward, click, click, click, click, click, click, and the movement seemed choreographed, as if controlled by one mind.
“‘Sup, girls?”
It annoyed his ex, Hailey, whenever he referred to women as girls. “Infantilizing” was the word she’d trotted out for that argument, explaining that anyone over eighteen was an adult. He’d agreed his word choice was infantilizing, and he could have promised Hailey he’d stop doing that, but her list of things he needed to do differently was so long—remember her birthday, call her the morning after, hold her hand during movies, answer her texts with real words and not just thumbs-up emojis—he figured she’d be better off with a different guy. Maybe someone “considerate.”
“I know you girls?”
“We’re here for you.” They spoke in unison and giggled all together, as well. They must be triplets, he thought. The in unison part made him leery, but then they licked their lips and reached up to caress the top of their cleavage, which brought his eyes to their mouths, their breasts.
His mother had warned him about girls when he headed off to college.
“They’re all looking to cash in.”
“They’re all looking to get pregnant.”
“They’re all looking for husbands.”
“They’re all looking to sink their claws into you.”
More so than any advice he’d heard from his dad or in rap songs, his mother’s exhortations had stuck with him because she was a woman. She must have known what she was talking about. She certainly would have cautioned him about the stiletto girls, but Richie couldn’t help himself.
In the background, someone increased the volume on “Da Rockwilder,” which had given way to Redman’s exuberant chorus, so Richie and everyone else missed the breaking news report that interrupted the Knicks game.
Richie had three rapid-fire thoughts.
First, the buxom trio must be strippers hired by Jim or Joe, the frat brothers behind him who were now catcalling and whistling while manning the keg, atop which Richie had been previously doing the stand.
Second, in the two-hour span of his party so far, perhaps he’d drunk one too many red cups of IPA and the stilettoed women were not as beautiful as they looked. Was “stilettoed” a real word, he wondered, or did he invent that? Brilliant.
Third, when the girls said “we’re here for you,” what if they intended to have a foursome with him, like as a birthday gift? He’d never even had a threesome. Hell, he and Hailey had barely had a twosome. So maybe this was about to be the best night of his life.
The breaking news report warned of multiple unexplained massacres across the country targeting men, but with the Knicks down twenty points, everyone had since turned away from the screen. Keg stands were way more entertaining than watching your team lose.
“For me? Okay.” Richie read the room, and his eight buddies had the same giddy facial expression as Richie.
He remembered the first Playboy magazine he’d tucked under his mattress. The first music video he’d seen with scantily clad girls twerking to the beat. His first lap dance. The first time he’d slept with Hailey. Already, it seemed, this night would be added to his list of firsts.
The four non-stilettoed girls in the room, who were in committed relationships with some of Richie’s frat brothers—with “committed” being a euphemism for “hog-tied”—stared at the stiletto girls with open disdain. One regular girl—who up until the arrival of the stiletto girls had been the highest heel-wearer, which she’d paired with stone-washed, hip-hugging jeans—scoffed, set her red cup on top of the kitchen island and pulled out her phone.
“Eff this bro shit. I’m calling an Uber.” Her name was Veronica. Veronica was in a “committed” relationship with Nathan, and Veronica was half the reason Richie’s ex Hailey had a laundry list of behaviors Richie needed to change. Nate had fixed his behaviors for Veronica. Richie had told Hailey to go fuck herself.
The stiletto girls closed the gap to Richie. The one in the middle grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him toward his bedroom. How did she know which closed door was the bedroom?
She was strong. Like college-wrestler strong. And as excited as he was to be led to his bedroom by her, some internal doubt broke away from his lust, and, on the way to the door, forced him to call over his shoulder, “So, which one of you asshats set up these girls?”
The remaining stiletto girls had already claimed two of his single friends and was redirecting one to the bathroom and the other toward the balcony.
Veronica called to the regular girls, “Car is three minutes away. Let’s go.”
Still unnoticed by Richie and his crew, the breaking news report showed cell phone footage of a group of women in stilettos stomping a man to death in the middle of a busy intersection. The rolling banner at the bottom of the screen read, “Supreme Court Justice and Secret Service Agents Killed in Broad Daylight.”
“We didn’t set them up.” Joe capped the keg, and he and Jim shrugged. “But, honestly, who gives a shit?”
Bathroom guy shrugged. Balcony guy did as well.
The four guys with wardens for girlfriends were already heading toward the front door. At first, Richie thought his “committed” buddies were leaving with their girls, but instead they kissed their ladies’ foreheads and returned to the living room. Richie grinned and waved goodbye to the girlfriends, certain none of their pussies-for-boyfriends had set up the stiletto girls.
With the girlfriends gone, the room underwent a palpable shift. The lights dimmed. The fragrance from the incense burning near the window grew stronger. Someone turned “Da Rockwilder” up even higher, and although the song was short, it was somehow set to repeat.
The television played on, ignored.
Richie’s stiletto girl reached inside his pants, where one of her red acrylic fingernail extensions scraped along his shaft. He had the urge to slap her hand away, but his reason gave way as she closed her palm around him and he immediately grew firm in her fist. She grinned and let out an exaggerated moan. He hadn’t been with anyone since Hailey and wondered why he felt guilty about the sexual pleasure coursing through his body.
The doorbell rang, and one of the “committed” guys answered. Six more stiletto girls were in the hall, dressed and postured exactly like the initial three. Those women had different faces, at least, but it occurred to Richie then that despite the alcohol in his bloodstream and the tension building inside his pants, there was something really wrong here. How could there be nine fantasy women dressed almost exactly alike, and just the right number for the guys at his party?
“No. Seriously. Who set this up?” Richie called out the question to the room, but all the guys were now claimed by a stiletto girl.
Jim and Joe were tongue-kissing their girls in the kitchen, his buddies’ hands beneath the girls’ skirts and down their tops.
The “committed” guys must have forgotten their girlfriends already because they were slow-dancing with their stiletto girls and in several stages of petting and undress.
Balcony guy had gone outside, and bathroom guy had disappeared behind that door, where moans emanated from inside.
Richie gazed into his stiletto girl’s deep brown eyes. They were still in the living room, inches apart, her back against his bedroom door. She smelled of fresh peaches. She’d managed to undo her shirt, so her voluptuous breasts were staring him in the face.
“Who hired you for my party?”
Richie’s mind went to his dad, a state senator. His dad had been caught cheating on his mom with a woman very similar to the stiletto girls, and his dad’s speechwriter had to draft the apology statement because his dad believed he had done nothing wrong. Not to Richie’s mom. Not to the voters who’d put him in office. Not to Richie. His dad would have wondered why Richie was hesitating. Probably would have called him a “pussy.”
“We’re here for you.” She giggled again. “We’re here for all of you.”
Rhythmic thumps flowed from the balcony and bathroom, with the same coming from behind the kitchen counter. Someone must have killed the music, because “Da Rockwilder” abruptly ended and the audio of the breaking news report filled the room.
“If you’re just joining us, President Rivera has declared a state of emergency as several unexplained massacres have unfolded around the country including in our nation’s capital.”
Richie’s head jerked up and he peered at the television. On the screen, an empty podium sat mid-frame for a White House press conference that was apparently about to start, but his stiletto girl used her free hand to grab his chin and guide his gaze back to her. Someone killed the television volume.
Her smile broadened, and she batted eyes that donned false curly lashes resembling feathers. In his pants, her hand strokes, lubricated by his own fluids, sped up, and that angered him. She was not answering his question and was trying to use pleasure to control him. She, and whoever had purchased her, had made a ton of assumptions about him. One of which was that he would go blindly into his bedroom with a gorgeous stranger just because she could give him an orgasm.
He reached down and yanked her hand from his body. “Yo.” He backed up a few steps, adjusted himself in his pants. He was throbbing down there, but he forced himself to focus. “Answer my question. Who told you to come here?”
Her face broke into an exaggerated pout, one a toddler would make. Chin dropped. Bottom lip poked out. Eyes wide and wet. But she still didn’t answer his actual question, and, one by one, the guys in his apartment screamed.
He turned to find the girls in the kitchen standing in front of Jim and Joe, but the girls were half a foot shorter, and Jim and Joe had red stilettos sticking out of their heads where their eyes should have been.
The heels couldn’t have gone in so deeply with normal stilettos.
No.
The footwear was hinged, so the fronts were dangling down, allowing the full length of the heels to lodge into his buddies’ eyes. Blood squirted out and around the shoes as the two men dropped to the floor. Their bodies writhed and jerked as they reached up and pulled at the pumps. Neither Joe nor Jim was able to remove the red objects lodged in their eyes. Their movements calmed. Slowly, their hands flopped to the floor. Seconds later, their bodies came to rest.
The dancing “committed” guys collapsed shortly after, and the bathroom and balcony doors rocked with loud banging. No longer rhythmic. Frantic this time, and followed by screams of “Help!” and “Oh my god! Let me out!”
Then silence.
When Richie turned back toward his stiletto girl, he saw two spiked heels coming with speed and force for his eyes.
The front door banged open and in came Veronica, saying, “We’re back. Melissa forgot her phone.” The interruption threw off his stiletto girl by a half second, allowing him to pivot and yank her forward. She twisted, fumbled the shoes, and landed throat first on her own heels. Her body did not jerk and quake like those of his friends. Blood pooled around her head, but she was stiff, motionless.
The eight remaining stiletto girls stared at him, still grinning. Still batting their eyelashes. The nearest one whispered, “Get him,” and they all jerked forward, their manicured nails like bright red claws as they reached for him.
Richie rushed toward the four girlfriends who stood in the entryway, screaming and retching. He gripped Veronica’s wrist and used his free hand to guide Melissa and the rest into the hall, not believing for one second that Melissa had forgotten her phone. They’d returned to check on their men, rightly suspecting their boyfriends were cheating with the stiletto girls, and he was grateful for their jealousy.
“Run!” he shouted, and that snapped the regular girls into action.
Without heels, the remaining stiletto girls descended quickly on the stairwell behind him. The regular girls exited through a door on level two, and Richie skipped steps and hopped over banisters to make it to the first level, across the lobby, and to the building’s exit. The stiletto girls giggled as they chased him. Was this a game? Were they certain they would get him?
The girlfriends’ rideshare sat idling out front as Richie burst through the front doors, twisting his right ankle in the process.
The driver took one look at Richie—the panicked look on his face, the slew of half-dressed girls on his tail, the prominent limp—and raised his hand to his door without breaking his glare. The car let out a clunk as the driver locked it, and Richie cursed as the man drove off.
Richie was Black. He knew that wasn’t the only reason or the main reason the driver refused to help him, but he knew his skin color didn’t help. The driver probably would have let in a woman under attack, especially if she were white.
Why was Richie thinking about this during his hobbling escape? Because a part of him running down that dark and unpopulated urban street wondered what he was saving himself for. Somehow this was going to end with him a) being stilettoed through the eyes, b) accused of setting up his friends by hiring killer strippers for his party, or c) succumbing in the unfolding, nationwide massacre that the breaking news report had warned about.
This made him think of Hailey. He hadn’t realized it when he’d bolted from his apartment, but he was running in the direction of her home, three-quarters of a mile away.
He did not have his phone. Hell, he didn’t even have on shoes. He wore a T-shirt and sweatpants damp from his earlier erection. But he did not let up. He dashed down the silent and empty street, pain shooting up from his ankle with every step that landed in the rain puddles, or what he hoped were rain puddles.
An old woman sitting on a milk crate against an empty liquor shop storefront sat up straight when she saw Richie rushing by. “You can’t outrun ‘em!”
Richie didn’t break his stride. Watch me, he thought.
“Pretty soon, you’ll all be gone.” The old woman cackled.
He couldn’t let her get to him. Maybe he wouldn’t survive the night, but he wasn’t going to be an easy win.
He eventually made it to the main drag, blocks from Hailey’s place, and he rushed across the boulevard. It also stood empty, and he wondered whether the entire world hadn’t fallen apart. Where were the sirens? Where was everyone? Had they heard the news reports and were all sheltering inside? He scanned the shops. Not a light shone.
He heard the ragged breaths of his assailants, close behind, giggling. They weren’t as fast as he was, but their stamina seemed unending. If he didn’t hide or put a barrier between himself and them soon, they would catch him.
As he ran, he sobered. A stitch formed in his side, and at the end of the block a diner he’d never before noticed came into view. To his surprise its lights were on, revealing the shapes of several people sitting inside, enjoying a meal. He imagined them eating steak and potatoes, and the simplicity of it made him want to cry. But it also gave him a sense of relief. If he could just make it inside, he’d be safe.
He reached the glass door, threw it open, lurched inside, locked the door behind him, and rushed to the counter. The conversation in the diner stopped, and as he crossed the restaurant’s cold tiled floor, he could feel multiple eyes on him. His ankle was on fire, he was gasping for air, and the woman at the register grinned at him. She seemed warm. Her smile reminded him of his mother’s.
“Call nine-one-one,” he managed between his panting. “Some women are trying to kill me.”
And when the woman at the register said, “Women? Why are these women trying to kill you, honey?” he heard the familiar click, click, click as she walked from behind the counter in stilettos, a smile frozen on her face.
Staring at her shoes, he stumbled backward against a counter stool. The metal seat crashed to the floor.
“Oh. Don’t mind my noisy shoes, darling. They’re just stilettos. Did you know these tapered heels resemble actual daggers?” She cocked her heel in the air toward Richie. Blood dripped from the tip. “Can you believe it? We force our poor feet into torture devices that approximate instruments of murder. I mean, how cute!”
He turned toward the now-locked exit. The women who had chased him were no longer outside the diner, but every customer in the restaurant smiled and giggled, their breasts jiggling in their midriff-baring tops, their blood-red stilettos glistening in the restaurant’s pale lights.
“Did you want to order something, sugar?” The woman reached for a spinning rack on the counter. She picked up an old newspaper, with the headline, “U.S. Supreme Court Overturns Roe v. Wade,” as if she were handing him a menu. “What can I get you, sweetie?”
She grabbed another newspaper from the rack; its headline read, “American Women Earn 82 Cents for Every Dollar a Man Makes.”
“You can get an order of sexism with a side of misogyny. Or did you want an entree? I think we still have some gender-pay gap left. Or we can get you a ten-ounce order of patriarchy. How would you like that cooked? Well? Medium? Rare? I prefer rare.”
The women—seated at the tables and at the lunch counter, and those perched on the bench near the front door, presumably waiting to be served—all rose in unison, their laughter increasing, their blouses unbuttoning, as they stepped forward and crowded around him, making it difficult to think, to breathe, to stay alive.
Click. Click. Click.