Chapter 1
Chapter One
Julian
Iwas late. Again.
I’m on my way, I swear. Just give me twenty minutes. I’ll show you a video that’ll blow your mind.
My thumb hovered over the send button as I looked up the tracks—still no headlights.
Jesus. I hit send and raked my fingers through my hair.
The station was packed, of course. It always was around lunchtime.
People in suits, moms with strollers, a guy in a Spider-Man costume trying to eat a hot dog without taking off his mask.
Classic Manhattan mayhem. The smell of roasted nuts, piss, and poor decisions hung in the air like incense in a church no one believed in.
I was already sweating under my leather jacket, and not the sexy kind of sweat. More like flop sweat, the kind you get when your rent depends on a good meeting and your podcast’s Patreon is looking thinner than a nun’s porn stash.
My podcast—Unholy Orders—wasn’t exactly raking in the ad revenue lately.
But I was hoping to change that today. If I could convince this sponsor that I’d found the next colossal fraud, I might actually get a bonus.
Or at least enough to pay off my credit card so Chase Bank would stop sending me threatening letters.
The screen above the tracks finally lit up. Next train in one minute.
Thank the gods. All of them. Even the fake ones.
I shoved my phone into my pocket, swiped sweat off my forehead, and waited for the train. It screeched into the station, packed full of human bodies like it was auditioning to be the setting of a zombie outbreak. The doors slid open with a whine.
And yet… a miracle. One empty seat. Right at the end of the car, in a sea of thighs, elbows, and sighs. I dove for it like it was the last golden ticket.
I slid into the seat and let out a groan that might have sounded borderline orgasmic if anyone had been listening. Spoiler: they weren’t. Everyone was busy pretending they weren’t dying inside.
I pulled out my phone again and opened the video.
I’d watched it maybe six times already, but it was still solid clickbait gold.
Perfect fodder for a takedown. The thumbnail alone was a buffet of red flags: some swoony-looking woman, tears streaming down her face, and a man with outstretched hands and an expression like he’d just been told he was the chosen one.
I pressed play.
A church full of people gasped in the background. Cheap lighting. A shaky handheld camera. The video looked like it’d been shot on a Motorola Razr by someone high on the Holy Spirit and definitely too much Monster energy drink.
The man on-screen said her name like he’d known it forever. “Susan.” Drawn-out vowels. Intimate. Like he was whispering it right into her soul. She was crying, of course. Limp. Crumpled. “I can’t walk,” she sobbed. “Not without pain.”
And then, cue divine theatrics, he laid his hand on her forehead and prayed.
“Father, I call down your healing fire…”
I rolled my eyes so hard I almost saw my past lives. Probably all atheists too.
The woman shook. Fell backward. Caught by two conveniently placed ushers in matching khaki pants.
Of course she walked after that. Limp miraculously gone.
Cheers. Tears. Camera zoomed in on her radiant, stunned smile like she hadn’t just been coached before this like it was a community theater for Jesus.
“This guy’s good,” I muttered, sliding the progress bar back to rewatch the moment his hand touched her head. “Real good.”
Which is when I really looked at him.
Holy hell.
He looked like some casting director’s wet dream of “Hot Prophet #1.” Tall.
Sun-kissed skin. A jawline sharp enough to qualify as a concealed weapon.
His brown hair was sun-streaked and just long enough to curl around his ears in these boyish waves that made me want to confess sins I hadn’t committed yet.
And those eyes—intense, blazing, like he’d seen heaven, licked it, and walked away unimpressed.
His voice was low and musical, thick with conviction. His shirt was white linen, open at the throat, and the pants? Linen too. White. Flowing. Sinfully soft-looking. And tight across the thighs. Blessed be.
“Oh no,” I whispered. “Don’t you dare be hot and a fake faith healer.”
My cock twitched. My conscience winced. This wasn’t good. I didn’t get crushes on the subjects of my investigations. I exposed them, ripping them apart on air. My podcast specialized in stories that ended in scandal, not sexy daydreams involving being bent over an altar.
But Jude, that was the name in the caption, looked like a man who made people believe. Even me. And I knew better.
I clicked pause right as the camera panned over his body again, capturing the clinging fabric between his legs and the full outline of his… blessings. It was distracting. Unfair, even.
I opened my messages.
You’re gonna love this guy. Might be the biggest scammer I’ve found all year. And hot, too. That help?
I smirked. The train rocked. The woman next to me snored into her Kindle. Somewhere down the car, a guy was beat boxing into a cup and asking for Venmo tips. It was chaos, as usual. But my brain was buzzing, already planning.
I had to meet this man. Get close. Figure out his angle. Figure out how someone with the face of a fallen angel and the body of a temptation made people believe they were healed.
And maybe figure out why I couldn’t stop watching the damned video.
By the time I shoved open the glass doors of the Jameson & Lewis Marketing offices, I was soaked in sweat, panting like I’d just fled the wrath of God himself. Which, given the line of work I was in, wasn’t entirely out of the question.
The receptionist, a bored twenty-something with pink headphones and a Diet Coke the size of her torso, gave me a single blink and a slow nod toward the elevators.
No judgment. No words. Just the dead-eyed sympathy you develop when your job is gatekeeping meetings for people who clearly forgot how clocks work.
I bolted down the hallway, past a display of minimalist magazine covers and motivational posters that said things like Market Disruptively! and Data Is Sexy! I felt like an impostor in my thrift-store leather jacket, trying to pass for someone with a retirement plan.
The conference room door was open. And there she was.
“Julian,” said Claudia Jameson, rising halfway from her chair in what could only be described as polite mockery. “You’re early. If this were taking place tomorrow.”
“I’m sorry. The trains were delayed,” I gasped, throwing myself into the sleek black chair across from her and trying to look less like a man who had run a 5K fueled entirely by spite and caffeine.
She waved a hand dismissively. “Relax. I once missed a meeting because my Uber driver got arrested mid-ride. You’re practically on time.”
Claudia Jameson was maybe mid-forties, ageless in that sharp, high-functioning New Yorker way.
Her blazer was expensive, and her blouse was red silk.
Her wit could skin a man alive and still make him say thank you.
She was the head of Jameson & Lewis’s niche media division—aka the lady who held the checkbook for weird little podcasts like mine.
She slid a bottle of water toward me like she was feeding a stray cat.
“You want to tell me why I should keep funneling marketing dollars into your charming little crusade against the spiritual-industrial complex?”
I uncapped the bottle and downed half in one go. “Because I’ve got our next season’s opening act. And it’s hot.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Hot like scandalous? Or hot like... thirst trap in a tunic?”
I grinned, fishing my phone from my pocket. “Why not both?”
Claudia leaned in, steepling her fingers. “You have my interest. I may even give you my full attention.”
I hit play on the video and turned the screen toward her. “His name’s Jude. Faith healer. Alleged miracle worker. Definitely working an angle.”
The clip began again. Jude with his glowing hands and golden-boy smolder, praying over a weeping woman like he was channeling divine broadband.
Claudia let out a low whistle. “Well, holy shit. That is one sexy prophet.”
“I know, right?” I said, a little too fast. “But he’s clearly a fake.”
“Wow. That woman is acting like she just got her hip replaced by the Holy Spirit.” She paused. “But damn. Look at the hips on him.”
She reached over and tapped the screen to pause it, right as Jude leaned forward, linen clinging to muscle like it had a crush. Claudia blinked at the image, then glanced at me over the tops of her tortoiseshell glasses.
“So. You want to follow this guy? Expose him? Discredit the next great pulpit thirst trap?”
“That’s the plan.”
“And you need...?”
“More funding. Travel budget. Equipment. I want to see him live. Maybe attend one of his shows. Maybe,” I said, smiling, “lay hands on the truth.”
Claudia groaned. “Julian, your double entendres are tragic.”
“But effective.”
She swiveled in her chair and pulled up a document on her sleek little MacBook. “You’ll need to promise me one thing,” she said, her eyes never leaving the screen.
“Anything.”
“If this guy turns out to be gay, you must ask him out on air.”
“What?”
“It’s called cross-promotional content, darling. Unholy Orders meets Hot Holy Men: The Dating Game. Think of the downloads.”
I laughed, but internally, a part of me was considering it.
Claudia hit a few keys, then turned back to me with a devilish grin. “Done. We’ll renew your sponsorship for the season. You’re officially authorized to hunt sexy spiritual con artists, starting with Saint Jude of the Boner Pants.”
I choked on my water. “That’s not what we’re calling him.”
“That’s exactly what I’m calling him.”
I stood, half-grateful, half-floored. “Seriously, thank you. This means a lot.”
“Of course it does. You’re one of the few podcasters I sponsor who doesn’t make me want to take up smoking again.”
She followed me to the door and added, “Just promise me one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“If he’s real, and I mean really real, don’t fall for him. That’s how cults start. Or worse, reality TV shows.”
I gave her a weak smile. “I’m a professional.”
She snorted. “Sweetheart, you just drooled on your phone, watching a man pray. God help us all.”
And with that, she walked off to her next meeting, heels clicking, blazer swishing, probably already rewriting our next ad campaign to include Jude’s ass.
I stepped into the hallway, still catching my breath. I had the green light. The cash, and the plan.
Now I just had to find the man behind the miracles, and make sure I didn’t fall for the fantasy.