Page 66 of Divine Temptations

I suddenly realized I’d been gripping my phone in my pocket like it was a weapon.

But for once, I didn’t want to record.

I just wanted to understand.

What the hell was Jude Brooks?

Because if that was a con… it was the most compassionate one I’d ever seen.

And if it wasn’t?

Then I was in way over my head. Doug returned to his seat in the circle, wiping his face, visibly lighter—like a man who’d just shrugged off a ten-ton grief jacket.

And I was still sitting there, mouth slightly open, brain spiraling in all directions like a Windows error screen.

What the actual hell just happened?

Did I just witness a healing?

No fucking way.

This was clearly staged. Had to be. There’s no other explanation. The man probably answered a Craigslist ad—“Wanted: Middle-aged white dude with widow baggage and solid acting chops. Must cry on cue. Must be willing to burn herbs and sob in public. Gas money included.”

Doug had come in guarded. Nervous. Too nervous. Which could’ve been genuine, sure—but also? Total amateur dramatics. I’d watched enough reality TV to know what a setup looked like.

Jude knew I’d be here. He invited me at the bar. He knew I was the host of Unholy Orders—knew I had a following, knew I had a mic in my backpack and a lousy attitude in my front pocket. This whole thing could’ve been an elaborate, incense-drenched performance. A premeditated “gotcha” designed to crack my crusty little cynic heart like a fortune cookie.

Well, plot twist, Mother Nature—I’m still crunchy.

I leaned back slightly, scanning the circle like I was profiling everyone for a con. The lady with the beads and the prayer shawl? Plant. That guy who kept humming like a didgeridoo? Paid extra. The woman sobbing gently next to the crystals? Probably someone’s cousin. They all had a wild-eyed, over-invested look. Like cultists, or people who voluntarily go on ayahuasca retreats in Costa Rica.

But then my gaze landed on him.

Jude stood at the edge of the firelight, his face still and open, like he hadn’t just emotionally vivisected a grown man in front of a live audience. The wind caught the hem of his shirt, making it flutter against his slacks like something out of a perfume ad. His hands hung loose at his sides, but I noticed the faintest tremble in his fingers.

Was he... affected?

God, I hated that he was beautiful. Not “good-looking,” not “handsome”—biblical. Like someone had carved him from driftwood and quiet longing. That golden-brown hair, catching the glow of the flames. His mouth. Soft, serious, made for kindness or sin, maybe both.

And those eyes. Not soft now. Sharp. Focused. On me.

Our eyes locked.

For a second, the world got real fucking quiet.

Something about the way he looked at me made my chest tight.

I swallowed and looked away, heat crawling up my neck. Nope. Absolutely not. Don’t do this. He’s probably brainwashing people with sage sticks and essential oils and good cheekbones. You are here to EXPOSE HIM, not fantasize about what his hair would feel like tangled in my fingers.

I forced myself to breathe and gave my skepticism a pep talk.

But as the drumming picked up again and the next ritual began, an idea slid into my mind like a smooth conman slipping into a wedding ring he didn’t earn.

If this were all a performance… I could play too.

Seduce the healer. Gain his trust. Get inside his world. Strip him down, metaphorically or otherwise. Catch him in the lie.

I could flirt my way into the truth.