Page 48 of Divine Temptations

Holy Water

Chapter One

Julian

Iwas late. Again.

The train was taking its sweet-ass time, and my sponsor was already two exasperated texts deep. I stood on the subway platform at 42nd Street, gripping my phone like it owed me money and typing with a furious energy that could have powered the MTA if they’d just wire me in.

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 getwhen 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.