Tramp

At sixteen, Xander hides in his childhood bedroom, entranced by a forbidden painting downloading line by line on an old computer. A knock on the door breaks the trance, the screen goes black. Years later, he stands in Senator Tammy Claypool’s mansion, half-naked in front of a Mondrian, accepting her cash and desires with detached ease. That night, dropped at a strip-mall apartment, he passes a billboard that mocks sinners. Inside, he logs another cash deposit, updates a ledger north of two million dollars, and stares at a secret Balthus painting hidden in his vault. He tries to paint his way past the memories, but rage tears the canvas apart—purity, he believes, exists only in pigment. Morning rituals follow: discreet cash drops, labeled burner phones, and a call from Ivy, an audacious stranger offering ten thousand an hour for same-day service. Xander refuses to work from home. At the Masada gym, he confronts Dale, the friend who gave Ivy his address. Dale defends the referral—Ivy just wants to hurt her rich father. But Xander smells a trap. The two navigate homeless encampments to a BDSM club where Dale hopes for solo money. Minutes later, Xander kicks down a door, rescuing him from a client choking him with a belt. Grateful, Dale poses for a pastel portrait but warns: call Ivy, make money, and leave Texas before age steals his appeal. That night, Ivy appears beneath a streetlight. She strips at his command to prove she carries nothing hidden. Inside his spotless apartment, she drinks ginger ale, pushes his boundaries, and admits she lied about her wealth just to meet the legendary escort Dale admired. Intrigued by her hunger, Xander agrees to mentor her for a hefty cut. He sketches her, but after showering, he collapses—his drink drugged. He wakes to find Ivy dead beside him, wrists limp, eyes open. Police swarm the apartment. A K-9 unit finds baby-food jars of fentanyl. Detective Emilia Mendoza arrests Xander for possession with intent to distribute. In interrogation, she notes his fake identity, the hidden painting, the cash, and his elite client list. She believes he’s not a trafficker and blocks homicide’s attempt to add felony murder. Still, charges stick—until Maya Sinclair, a fierce attorney, secures a shock dismissal. But the state keeps his fortune and art through civil forfeiture. Xander walks out penniless. Furious, he breaks into Dale’s condo. There’s cocaine residue, empty Narcan boxes, and a tablet hidden behind a crooked Klimt. Detective Mendoza finds him there, gun drawn. Together, they unlock the tablet: surveillance clips show Dale impersonating a cop, reviving drugged escorts, and extorting wealthy clients. Ivy’s scheme begins to unravel. Victor, the police evidence custodian who’d died by suicide, was part of it. A morgue visit confirms the girl in Xander’s bed wasn’t Ivy—just a disposable stand-in, marked with a fresh tattoo. Victor’s house reveals baby toys, BDSM gear, stacks of cash, and Victor himself—dead in the tub. But the money’s fake, swapped with Monopoly bills. The real fortune is gone. Clues point to Senator Tammy’s stolen art. In her gallery, the Mondrian now hangs right-side up. Her broker, Greg, confirms an unsigned Balthus has surfaced on the black market, priced at twenty million, destined for Mexico via Rafa Paloma, a feared Laredo fixer. Emilia’s calm cracks—Paloma once slit children’s throats before drowning their fathers. She and Xander drive south, stopping only so Emilia can leave art books and an apology for her brother Hector in prison. In a dingy motel, they share whiskey and secrets. Xander’s real name is Michael—his sketches burned by his mother, his unborn child aborted by the church. Emilia admits her spotless record hides the day she shot a trafficker who butchered four girls and held Alice—her niece—at knifepoint. Violence binds them. They hatch a brutal ruse: Xander beats Emilia until her face blooms purple, braids a mic into her hair, and sends her to Paloma, playing the battered traveler. Under a bridge she lights a Santa Muerte candle. Paloma, intrigued, offers her shelter and a pistol with an ivory grip. Inside his sleek penthouse, he drugs her, but his hand catches on the braid. Roaring “traidora,” he reaches for his gun. She shoots him in the groin, unlocks his phone for the safe-house address, and finishes him with a bullet to the head. Xander crashes through glass doors, rescues her, and flees with Paloma’s phone. It leads them to a rural house. Inside, Ivy cooks fish under a sheet-covered painting. Two guards and a pair of art buyers arrive. The painting—claimed to be a Balthus—is fake. Authentication tools expose it as a forgery—Xander’s own copy. Ivy’s charm evaporates. One guard plunges her face into hot oil after she slashes him. They leave with their money, convinced the deception was hers alone. Xander enters, gun drawn. Ivy, disfigured but alive, drinks wine with him across a grease-slicked kitchen table. She confesses to framing him and killing Dale. He reveals he painted the forgery, Dale knew, and both were expendable. She lashes out, slashing his face with a broken bottle. He bites through her cheek, drives glass into her throat, and shoots her dead. Blood spreads across the tiles. He cuts the fake Balthus from its frame and vanishes into the desert. Months later, Emilia’s apartment is filled with Xander’s work: self-portraits scored by scars, sun-washed vistas of Portugal, tender drawings of Dale, and the fake Balthus leaning in a corner. Xander’s wounds have healed into jagged seams. He paints silently as Emilia holsters her Glock and heads out to dinner with Alice. She locks the door behind her, leaving him alone with brushes and ghosts. Only then does the painting take shape: Ivy, posed in languid imitation of Thérèse Dreaming, immortalized by the man she betrayed. As his brush moves, the old sound returns—the echo of a childhood modem, screeching as forbidden beauty downloads, line by line.