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.”
