Page 26 of Lassoed Love

I guess it’s just Harrison, Michael, and I now. We’ve been friends,more like brothers, since a young age. They didn’t go to the same high school, but that didn’t deter us.

The guys beside me are still droning on about the women in town, discussing them as if they're commodities up for grabs. Disgusted by the objectification, I catch myself in a moment of self-reflection. The eighteen-year-old version of me, a testosterone-fueled, immature idiot, would have reveled in these conversations. The mere thought of it makes me cringe. The superficial conversations, the lewd comments—they all grate on my nerves, a stark reminder of a version of myself I’d rather forget.

Now, at thirty, the idea of such shallowness makes me hate my younger self even more.How did I ever find that appealing?

One of the guys poses a question to me. My attention, however, remains fixed on Isla at the bar, her long, brown hair cascading down her back. She’s engrossed in conversation, seemingly unaware of my presence in the pub. I don’t register the question thrown my way.

Harrison’s booming voice cuts through the banter. “Xav, my man, you’ve been staring at that one for a while…”

I roll my eyes at the assumption, but before I can respond, Harrison drops the bomb. “Oh shit, that’s ol’ Callum Thompson’s daughter.”

Recognition flickers on Tom’s face. “Bullshit, no! Shit, she’s changed, aye? Bit more on the fuller side now.” He chuckles and an unpleasant tension tightens my jaw as I shoot Tom a disapproving glare.

“Well, look who’s talking,” I fire back, giving a casual wave inthe general direction of Tom’s towering but less-than-impressive frame. Seriously, the guy’s built like a stretched-out scarecrow, and it looks like he hasn’t seen a barber since the invention of scissors. Stammering ensues, caught off guard by my unexpected jab.

“Oi, woah. Relax, man, I was just messing around. Didn’t realise you were so possessive,” Tom protests.I am not.

Meanwhile, Harrison and Michael find the teasing so uproarious that they practically pee themselves laughing. My unexpected comeback evidently has them in stitches, doubling over like a pair of hyenas at a stand-up comedy show.Idiots.

Tom, not knowing when to quit,clearly,continues, “You throwing dibs on that one, are ya?” He tries to play it cool, but I’ve had enough.

“Fuck off, cunt,” I retort, not in the mood for his games. But the wanker just laughs, probably revelling in the fact that he has me all riled up. Am I that obvious?Shit, I am..

Harrison chimes in, “It’s alright, Xav. You know the fucker just loves to stir some shit.”

I shoot the guys a glare, ignoring their attempts at banter. They return to their conversations, and I just drown them out, listening to the blaring music. I turn my attention back to the bar and notice that Isla and the girls are no longer there.Shit.

Moments pass, and I wonder where she went off to. I seize the opportunity to finish the last gulp of my now-empty beer. I rise from my seat, leaving the raucous group behind, and saunter off to the bar, desperate for a refill to drown out the residual frustration.The atmosphere is thick with the usual pub cacophony—laughter, clinking glasses, and country music.

As I approach the bar, a sudden commotion grabs my attention from one of the booths in the far corner. Weary, but intrigued, I squint to make out the unfolding drama, but it doesn’t phase me. This is Wattle Creek, after all, where the norm involves local drunks roughin’ it out with one another..

I decide to stay put and turn back towards the bar, when a fragment of the argument reaches my ears. “Show some fucking respect…” The words are muffled by the blaring music, but I catch the disdainful tone of a…woman?A loud, “You spineless pricks,” punctuates the air, and my curiosity intensifies.

The bartender, the same wanker Isla was chatting with earlier, seems to have caught on to the commotion. “Oh, shit! Is–is that Isla?”What?My face instantly drops, and I whip back around to locate the source of the disturbance.

My eyes follow his, and there, standing at a table occupied by three burly locals, is Isla. She’s towering over them, throwing emphatic hand gestures, seemingly engaged in a heated exchange.Oh, shit.

Without a second thought, I storm off towards her, standing at the booth, a growing crowd now gathered around the group. Nosy fucks. Pushing a few people out of the way, I bark out, “What the fuck is going on here?” As I approach, the men stiffen as they realise my presence.

One of them, Richard, catches my eye, and a flicker of recognition crosses my mind. He’s the proprietor of the grocery store down theroad, the one we regularly supply with our fresh eggs and cow’s milk. Isla turns to look at me, her eyes filled with unmistakable grief, tears staining her face. My unexpected appearance seems to have caught her off guard. Claire and Imogen stand behind her, sharing identical expressions, although Imogen’s carries an extra layer of displeasure.Hm.

Richard speaks up, attempting to downplay the situation. “Nothing to see here, Xavier, mate, just some minors getting all ruffled by a good ol’ chinwag, is all.”

“Oh, bull-fucking-shit, there’s nothing pleasant about any of that, you fuc—” cutting off her words.

“Isla!” I declare. “Settle down.” I hold my hand up, trying to diffuse the situation. Her eyes widen for a split second, appalled by my interruption, before shooting daggers at me.

Isla’s frustration escalates, her voice gaining volume with noticeable slurring, indicating she’s well past the point of sobriety. “No, this is fucking bullshit. These meatheads over here think it’s okay to talk fucking shit while I’m standing right fucking here.”

Just then, another guy next to Richard decides to toss in his two bobs worth in, muttering under his breath, “No wonder she’s a mess with a dad who can’t hold his liquororhis life together…” further intensifying the tension.

“Watch your fucking mouth before I come over there and shut it for you,” I growl, anger resonating in my voice.Piece of shit.

But Isla shrugs off Claire’s hand, her rage consuming her. “Please, don’t fucking touch me,” she spits, her words dripping with anger. “I don’t feel like being consoled right now,” she adds firmly.

Claire looks shocked by Isla’s reaction, her eyes wide with concern. Imogen steps in, coming to Claire's defence. “Hey! Isla, you need to calm down. She’s just trying to help,” Imogen says firmly, her voice tinged with frustration.

“Calm down?” Isla huffs in disbelief.Fuck me, this is not getting any better.

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