Page 118 of Yearn

Ro leaned back and widened her eyes. “So some scary guy is coming into your library and you are about to boss up on him about library dues? You better leave that man alone.”

I nodded. “I’m siding with Ro on this one, Cadence. Every time you mention this biker, he sounds like he can snap your car in half with one hand.”

Cadence’s lips tightened. “Rules are rules. Library cards are privileges, not rights. I warned him twice. He parks his huge bike on the pavement, not in the parking lot. Then, he just strolls in with his leather cut, all tattooed up, sunglasses hanging from his collar, acting like deadlines don’t apply to him. The entire children’s section stares. And when I tell him he owes thirty-two dollars and seventy-five cents, he smiles—” she paused, nostrils flaring like the smile itself had unsettled her “—and says he’ll get to it another time.”

Ro slapped her thigh. “A smile? Uh-uh. This is a man who knows exactly how dangerous he looks and leans into it. And you’re about to come at him with fines?”

“Girl.” I nodded again. “If it isthatserious, I will give you the $32, just so you don’t get killed.”

Cadence shook her head. “It’s not just about the money. It is the symbolism of it all. He thinks he doesn’t have to follow the rules.”

Ro picked up her glass of champagne up. “But he doesn’t have to follow the rules. From your description, he probably breaks the law every damn day.”

“I believe it. He’s such a troublemaker. And he brings all of his friends into the library too,” Cadence rolled her eyes. “Every single time. Six or seven other big men, all cut from the same leather and jeans—ink crawling up their throats, boots heavy enough to crack the tile, the smell of oil and weed smoke like they brought the road inside with them. They wait around the circulation desk, taking up space, like they’re daring me to tell their supposed leader no.”

A low hum went around our little trio.

Even Ro stopped joking for a beat.

I said the thing that needed to be said. “So. . .he’s the leader of a biker gang?”

“Probably.”

Ro shrieked. “Leave that man alone!”

I took a sip of champagne. “What the hell is he checking out that he’s getting late dues on?”

Ro snorted, “Probably books about how to hide bodies.”

Cadence shook her head. “Actually, he’s checking out children’s picture books.”

I blinked.

Cadence’s voice softened against her will. “The books are for his niece. His sister passed last year. He’s raising her now.”

The words landed heavy and tender.

For a second I saw him in my mind: this massive man with hands scarred from engines or fights, sitting in a chair too small for him, holding open a bright-colored book with talking animals so a little girl could see the pictures.

“Aww.” My heart ached. “Seriously. I’ll pay his dues.”

Ro fanned herself. “See? That’s exactly how they get you. They look like hell on wheels, then they sit down with a kid on their lap and every woman in the county ovulates at once.”

Cadence huffed, cheeks pinker than her usual librarian flush. “I don’t care if he readsGoodnight Moonin seven voices. He still owes dues andhehas to pay them. No one else.”

Ro leaned in closer, lowering her voice into a mock-ominous growl. “Cadence. Biker President. Psycho. Probably dangerous as hell. And you’re about to look him in the eye and say, ‘Sir, you cannot check outClifford the Big Red Doguntil you pay your thirty-two seventy-five.’ You’ll get your head mounted on his handlebars.”

Cadence rolled her eyes. “I’ve got mace.”

I choked on my champagne. “Mace? Baby, mace is just going to piss him off. He’ll take it like perfume and ask you what brand.”

“Everyone is afraid of him on the staff.” Cadence touched her chest. “I’m not. I’m going to teach him what his mama didn’t.”

I pressed my hand to my mouth as my laughter fought with my nerves. Something about the way Cadence told this story—it wasn’t just annoyance. There was a pulse under her words, quick and unwanted, the way a woman talks about a man who unsettles her in more ways than one.

Meanwhile, every time the conversation sharpened—Cadence muttering about the biker, Ro shrieking at her about clearing the fines—a Helper slid by to pour us more champagne without a word, as if our drama required extra hydration.

Ro looked to me. “So basically we’re going to need to pick some nice black dresses for Cadence’s funeral.”