Mated by Midnight Series Bundle

Once upon a time, I loved living in New York City. Bright lights, bustling streets, activity literally everywhere you look. Back in college, this city had seemed perfect for someone like me. Someone who seeks a story out like a dog searches the yard for a bone. Every stone turned over; every needle separated from the haystack.
Journalism or subterfuge—that's what my brothers always predicted for my career. I usually followed that up with a middle finger, provided my mother wasn’t watching. It doesn’t matter how old a girl gets; you’re never quite old enough to flip your own mother the bird and have your father hear about it.
As far back as I can remember, I’ve always wanted to know it all. Solve the mystery. Get to the truth. And in college, studying journalism only fed my passion for separating fact from fiction. Or, even better, the everyday monotony from the flashy and exciting. Those are the needles in the haystack I’m after. Even if the haystack I’m currently assigned to involves such riveting drama as which hot dog cart is at war with which taco truck. And that’s just this week—next week, it could be the coffee cart at odds with the mobile juice bar. See what I mean? Riveting.
When I landed my dream job at the Times straight out of college, I thought I’d “made it.” But after two years on the back page of the Local’s Section, I’m just not sure anymore. And that uncertainty has made me wonder if the grass is, in fact, greener. Every day, the city lights lose a bit more of their luster, waning alongside my excitement for journalism.
Maybe soured is more accurate. Yeah, soured is a pretty damn good word for this particular journalistic dry spell. What was once a passion has turned into a job. And isn’t that depressing as hell?
“That had better be coffee in your hand, Serenity Kellis.”
Armed with a smile, I turn toward Allison, my best friend in the entire world. Rocking red Chuck Taylors and navy-blue hair, she looks like a beautiful, female version of Sonic The Hedgehog. “You know it is.” I offer her a paper cup, and she takes it, not wasting any time before tipping it up and drinking.
“I cannot believe you talked me into this,” she groans.
“It’s not that early,” I tell her as I loop my free arm through hers and guide her toward the large iron archway of New York’s food truck park. Trees canopy over the top of us, casting shadows over the sidewalk.
“It’s before eight. It’s early.”
I supposed there’s no need to mention that I’ve been up since four. “Listen, when my contact says there’s something to see, there’s something to see.” Even as I say the words, I also send up a silent plea that they’re the truth. While things in the food truck world can certainly get dramatic, most of the time, “something to see” is really just a lewd statement written in washable paint on the side of one of the carts. Just once, I’d kill for permanent ink. At least, then there’d be a reason for the theatrics.
“Yeah. Well, agree to disagree. But since I’m here—for which you owe me, I might add—the least you can do is entertain me. What’s new in RoscoeVille?”
I sigh. I don’t mean to…it just comes out. And like the investigative journalist she is, Allison whirls on me and points her index finger at me.
“What is it? Do we get to kill him? Bury the body? You just say the word. I’ve already got a shovel and—”
Chuckling, I shake my head. She’s never been a fan of Roscoe. Says he’s far too arrogant to be any good. “It’s nothing like that. He’s just been distant lately, and I think that’s screwing with my head when it comes to planning the wedding.”
“You know, it’s not too late to run,” she tells me. “You’ve got a month. We can hop on a plane, head to Mexico; they’ll never find us.”
I don’t say it out loud, but the idea of running? It’s something that has crossed my mind. Even if I know I won’t ever go through with it. After all, I have the ideal life: steady job, handsome fiancé, New York apartment. It doesn't get better than that, right?