3
Jungle X Ambassadors (feat. Jamie N Commons) Animal I have Become - Three Days Grace
“ W hat the fuck did you say to her?” I shove Jesse back against the table.
His brows shoot up. “Oh, I can’t believe she ran to you like a little tattletale.”
What a piece of shit. Always has been. My grip tightens on his collar, and memories of this prick’s bullshit flood back—His dad used to be friends with my deadbeat father. Two useless bastards, dragging everyone around them down. Although mine doesn’t even deserve the title father. He’s just a ghost with a bad temper and worse decisions. The whole night, this is what I was bracing for. Jesse, that arrogant prick, running his mouth. Of course, he would—he never could keep it shut. He knows just enough about my past to weaponise it, and fuck me, I can handle anyone knowing. But not her. Not Imogen. She doesn’t need that shit in her head, doesn’t deserve to carry any of it.
Imogen steps forward, facing Jesse. “I didn’t say anything to him, you moron!”
Jesse’s smirk doesn’t waver. “She’s a big girl, mate. Maybe you should worry about your own baggage. You’re just like him, you know. Immature, a joke—just like your old man.”
My blood runs hot. He just had to go there. My gaze darts to Imogen—her head’s down, avoiding me. He fucking told her. That scum-stain of a father, his name, his shame—he dragged her into it. God , not her.
“You say one more word and I’ll break your fucking jaw.”
Every muscle is coiled tight, the urge to swing bubbling under my skin. It’d be so easy to let loose, to smash his face in and shut him up for good. But voices behind me break through the storm; steady, and familiar.
“Back off, Jesse,” Michael warns, his tone cold, the kind of cold that makes men rethink their choices. I catch the scent of smoke and leather. Jono, a mate from work, is here, too. Typical—they’d never let me go off without backup. Jesse doesn’t heed the warning.
“Always need your little friends to fight your battles for you, huh?”
Imogen’s hand grabs my arm. “Harrison, leave it.” But there’s no leaving. Not now. My pulse pounds like a drum, and Jesse’s shit-eating grin is daring me to lose it. He’s begging for a reckoning, and I’m about to give him one.
“You should really pick better company, Imogen.” Jesse tosses out another jab.
The world goes white-hot. There’s no pause, no thought—just the crack of my fist slamming into his face. The impact jolts up my arm, sharp and satisfying. Jesse stumbles back, clutching his nose, blood already streaming down his hand. His glare burns, humiliated and furious.
“Prick,” he spits, swinging wildly. His knuckles glance off my cheek, but it’s a tap compared to the fire in my chest.
“Cut it out, Harrison.” I hear Michael’s voice before I even see him. Soon enough, his hands are on me, pulling me back. I shake him off, heart racing, mind spiraling, but Michael’s got a grip on me.
“Let me go,” I snarl, chest heaving.
“Breathe, mate. Just breathe.” Michael’s words soothe me for a moment. They always have. But deep down, I know they’re never enough. Not enough to tame the simmering beast inside. Jesse spits blood and words, trying to squirm free from Jono’s grip.
Imogen steps in front of me. “Stop, Harrison!” she shouts. “What is wrong with you?”
Everything. What isn’t? Every muscle is coiled, every nerve burning. Her words hit harder than Jesse’s punch. Michael’s grip loosens slightly, but he doesn’t let go. He knows better.
“Fucking pathetic.” Jesse spits.
Imogen wheels on him. “Get out, Jesse. Now. Before you embarrass yourself anymore.”
“You’re all bloody crazy,” he mutters, storming off into the crowd.
Michael gives me a shove toward the door. “Outside. Now. ”
The air is cooler outside, but the tension clings. The crowd inside barely noticed. Just another bar fight at the Loose Lasso. Nothing new.
Michael finally lets go. “You’re a bloody idiot, you know that?” Can’t deny that. He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “You good to drive?”
I nod. I’d only had two beers, so I’m fine, though my jaw aches. Imogen crosses her arms, staring like she’s not done with me yet. She probably isn’t.
I walk to my car and pop open the door of my ‘04 Subaru Rexy, the cool night air doing jack shit to put out the fire still roaring in my chest. Footsteps. The sharp click-click of her heels echoes behind me. “Harrison!” Her voice slices through the night. “Wait up!”
Grinding my teeth, I stop mid-step, glancing over my shoulder. “Go home, Imogen. Just... leave.”
She doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t. “Seriously, what was that back there?”
“That prick got what he deserved,” I say, wiping the blood off my lip.
“You can’t just punch people because it makes you feel better!” Her arms cross, and the way it pushes her tits up—fuck me dead—has no right to look that good when I’m this pissed.
“I can do whatever the fuck I want.”
“No, you can’t!”
I step closer, crowding her space. “Oh yeah? What are you gonna do about it? Is this about him? You care about him, huh? That it?”
Her eyes narrow. “Absolutely not!”
“Then why are you here busting my balls about it?” My voice rises, my pulse pounding in my temples. She hesitates, and I pounce. “Let me tell you something. That wanker deserved more than a punch. Mouth off like that again, and he’ll wish it stopped with a black eye. He’s bloody lucky.”
Her lips part like she’s about to argue, but the words don’t come. Her body stiffens, a flicker of something—confusion, maybe—playing in her stance. She just stares, her gaze sharp enough to cut through steel.
“You can’t just lose your shit and expect everyone to look the other way!” she snaps, stepping closer, blue eyes blazing with that fire she’s famous for. It’s maddening. And fucking irresistible. I know she’s right, though. But controlling this rage, this darkness, is harder than she’ll ever understand.
She’s so close now. Too close. Every bit of me is screaming to either kiss her or start another fight. Christ, this woman’s gonna be the death of me.
“Why do you care?” I step closer, close enough to catch the faintest hitch in her breath. Her chest rises and falls quicker now, and we’re practically sharing the same bloody air. “What does it matter to you what I do?”
She doesn’t answer. Just stares at me with those wide blue eyes, the kind of look that drills straight into a bloke’s head and starts rooting around for things he’s got no business remembering. Her eyes soften for a moment, and my jaw clenches, fists curling tight at my sides. That look . Fuck, I know it. The one that screams pity without saying a word. There is no chance I’m letting her see me like that. Weak? Pathetic? Absolutely not.
Years of taking shit, standing firm while everything fell apart, I’ve done it alone. No parents to back me, no soft place to land. Just me, carrying it all for my brother, fighting demons no one else sees.
“I don’t care.” She murmurs. Good. Perfect. And yet, she’s still here.
“So, why’re you sticking around, then?” My voice drops. “Thought you couldn’t stand me.”
“I can’t,” she snaps, quick as a whip.
“Mhm.” My mouth tugs into a smirk. “Eyes are saying something else, though.”
Her breath stumbles, just for a second, but I catch it. “Yeah, right,” she bites back, but there’s no mistaking the hitch in her chest. Leaning in, I close the gap, my nose brushing the edge of her hair. She stays still, frozen, like she’s daring me. Or maybe daring herself. Her arms are still crossed, defensive, but her lips part, pulling in quick breaths. My gaze drags down her body—fuck, the way she’s standing there, like a goddamn challenge wrapped in a dream.
“You’re driving me fucking insane,” I murmur, my voice low enough to scrape against her ear. “All I can think about is you, Imogen.”
“Why does everything you say have to be so filthy?”
“Can’t help it.” My hand ghosts down her side, fingers skimming her hip. “You have any bloody clue what you do to me?” Her lips purse, defiance stamped across her face.
“Don’t know, don’t care.”
Bullshit.
In one quick move, I grab her by the waist and pull her toward me. Her gasp is sharp, her hands landing on my chest. Her body arches against mine, her lips parting just enough to let out a shaky exhale.
“Sure about that, sugar?” My voice is a growl. “Can you feel what you do to me?”
“Screw you, Harrison,” she scoffs, but there’s no heat behind it—just something charged, something that sends a jolt straight through me.
“Is that what you want?” My hand locks onto her waist, yanking her closer. “Because I’d be more than happy to oblige.” She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to. Her body leans into mine, her breath hitching, her chest brushing against me like she’s just daring me to take the next step.
“Tell me, sugar,” I taunt, my lips curling into a wicked grin. “If tonight hadn’t gone sideways, would you have gone home with him?”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Tell me.” My voice drops lower, and I roll my hips against hers, slow and deliberate.
Her jaw tightens, a flush creeping up her neck. “No.”
“Didn’t think so.” My smirk deepens as I lean in, my mouth brushing her ear. “Because let’s face it, sweetheart—he couldn’t fuck you like I could.”
Her shudder betrays her even as she rolls her eyes. “You’re so full of yourself.”
“Maybe.” My fingers trail down her arm, catching the slight tremor in her muscles. “But don’t pretend you don’t love it. Admit it—you like the way I get under your skin. The way I talk. It turns you on, doesn’t it?”
“No. It shits me.”
“Yeah?” My breath skims the curve of her neck as goosebumps rise along her skin. “Because you know I’m right. I know you want this. Tell me I’m wrong,”
Her silence hangs heavy between us, thick and undeniable. Her lips part, and for a second, I think she’s going to tell me off.
Instead, she grabs a fistful of my shirt and pulls me close to her. “Ugh, just shut up.”
The words barely leave her mouth before she presses it against mine. The kiss is rough, raw, all teeth and tongues. Sweet lip gloss mixed with red wine floods my senses, and fuck me if it isn’t addictive.
She pulls at my hair, hard, sending a growl tearing out of my chest. Suddenly, I’m turning her around so she’s up against my car, pressing my knee between her thighs, rubbing it against her heat. She gasps, hips rolling against me, and that sound? That little gasp? It rewires my whole damn system. I’m gone. Completely gone.
The wetness seeping through my jeans sends a pulse straight to my cock. My hands grip her waist, dragging her closer, needing her tighter, harder, more . My mouth moves to her neck, biting down just enough to leave a mark—a reminder of this moment she won’t be able to hide. Her hips grind faster, her body trembling against mine, and I swear there’s nothing more perfect than her like this—wild, desperate.
She’s mine right now, no question about it. “That’s it, sugar,” I growl, grinding harder against her. “Soak my jeans. Show me that pretty face when you come.”
We’re a mess of limbs and teeth, tongues tangling, grinding like we’re anywhere but a public car park. Not that I’d give a shit if someone caught us. “Fuck yeah,” I murmur. “Grind harder. Imagine it’s my cock you’re riding.”
“You fucking wish,” she snaps, but her hips press harder against me.
“I do. Every second.”
Her eyes squeeze shut, her thighs trembling against mine. It’s fucking primal—the way her body arches into mine, her rhythm desperate, frantic, like she’s chasing that edge with everything she has. And when she finally snaps, her cry tears through the air, her whole body shaking, as her arousal coats my thigh.
“Fucking hell, Imogen,” I breathe. Her nails rake down my chest, leaving trails of fire that send my brain spinning. She looks wrecked—flushed, trembling, hair wild—and I swear I’ve never seen anything hotter. Before I can pull her back for more, she pushes herself off me, smoothing out her dress, and combing through her hair like she’s trying to erase the chaos we just created.
My gaze drops to the wet patch on my jeans, and I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. “Look at the mess you made.” She shrugs, wiping at her mouth. I nod toward the very obvious, very painful bulge straining in my jeans. “Care to return the favour, sugar?”
Imogen’s laugh cuts through the air. She turns around, her hips swaying just enough to make my pulse trip. “Thanks for the orgasm, but no thanks,” she says, flicking her hair over her shoulder. I watch her go, my jeans damp, cock aching. “But good luck with that, big boy,” she calls without a glance back.
My hands flex at my sides, sparks racing through my brain like a live wire. The sting of her nails lingers, the imprint of her body burned into my skin, and now she’s gone, leaving me hanging—literally.
This? Oh, this isn’t done. Not even close.