Chapter 16 Grim House
GRIM HOUSE
DYLAN
Moon By Austin Georgio
Grim House lives up to its name.
The building squats like a decaying tooth between a vape shop and a boarded-up coffeehouse on Wilcox. Graffiti snakes up the black brick facade, and a blood-red neon sign buzzes weakly overhead like it’s on the verge of giving up.
As soon as I push open the door, a wave of humidity and bass hits me dead in the chest. The music has teeth, the kind that scrape across my ribs and make my pulse match the rhythm without my permission.
The scent of cheap beer, sweat, and something sweet and chemical hangs in the air like an exhale no one has taken responsibility for.
What I don’t expect—what practically punches the air from my lungs—is Morgan Clemson.
She stands near the edge of the bar, nursing a half-empty pint of dark beer and tapping her fingers against the rim of the glass.
Jeans faded in all the right places, sneakers scuffed and obviously loved, and a tight black tank top knotted at the side to show a sliver of skin above her waistband.
Her raven hair is down—loose waves tumbling past her shoulders like she doesn’t have time to care.
No designer bag, no statement jewelry. Just her.
All effortless confidence and unexpected softness.
God, she looks like the girl I used to know before everything got complicated.
Beautiful in a way that makes it hard to breathe.
I make my way toward her, shoulder brushing past a guy in flannel with enormous gauges and a girl with glitter smeared across her cheeks like war paint.
No one notices me. That’s the charm of places like this—you could own half the city and still wait five minutes for a shitty beer with bad lighting.
She sees me before I reach her, a smile tugging at her mouth just for me. Genuine. A little surprised. A little shy.
“You showed,” she says, raising her glass.
“Look at you,” I say, unable to help the grin. “Sneakers and denim. What’s next—Monster energy drinks and questionable tattoos?”
Her eyes sparkle as she takes a slow sip. “Who says I don’t already have the tattoo?”
I blink. “Wait—seriously?”
She smirks. “College. Poor decision. Excellent story.”
Now I’m grinning because I haven’t had time to scope out all the secret places I want to in the elevator. “Where is it?”
She tilts her head. “That depends—are you asking as a concerned citizen or for scientific research?”
“Both,” I say, leaning in. “But mostly selfish curiosity.”
She laughs, low and warm. “Maybe I’ll show you. If you behave.”
“I’m very motivated by incentives.” I wink.
“Good to know,” she says, smiling.
I step next to her, close enough to smell the floral soap on her skin, and lean on the sticky bar for the bartender’s attention.
“This place is disgusting,” I say, lips close to her ear.
She laughs. “That’s the point.”
I motion to the bartender to give me what she’s having.
I catch the smile she’s trying to hide when the bartender plunks two glasses between us, foam spilling over. It’s cold and tastes like it has a point to prove. I watch the stage, the band setting up under flickering cobalt lights.
“So,” she says, shifting toward me, her hip brushing mine. “What made you decide to come tonight?”
“Because you asked.”
She looks like she doesn’t quite believe me, like she doesn’t want to, and it makes me want to say more.
“And because I’m sick of pretending like every conversation we have has to end in strategy or sabotage,” I say. “Sometimes, it feels like the only way I get your attention is by playing the villain,” I add, quieter this time.
Her lips part slightly, surprised. “You do it very well, actually.”
“I have a lot of practice,” I say, smiling weakly. “But tonight, I wanted to hear some music. See a different side of this business we’re both fighting over.”
She turns toward me fully, beer in one hand, the other resting lightly at her side. “Is that really why you came?” she asks, eyes too sharp for how soft her voice is.
“No,” I admit. “I wanted to see you. Like this. Loose. Not battling over stage space and artist contracts.”
She looks at me for a beat, unreadable.
“You look like the girl I used to know,” I say. “Before New York. Before all of it.”
Something flickers behind her eyes—recognition. Or regret.
She sets her beer down carefully. “Yeah, well… that girl didn’t last very long.
New York was supposed to be the dream. Design school, internships, the runway circuit.
I thought I’d be sketching gowns that walked Paris by now.
” Her fingers toy with the rim of her glass.
“I was burning out for nothing, watching other people take credit for my ideas while I stayed invisible.”
“I’m sorry you had to go through all that,” I say honestly.
She smiles, small and genuine, making something twist in my stomach. “Hazel was the one thing that made sense.”
I don’t speak. I just watch the way she holds herself together like it’s muscle memory.
She looks at me, voice steady now. “My dad died and I picked up the pieces.”
I watch her for a long second. “That’s strength,” I say.
She lets out a soft, breathy laugh. “It didn’t feel like strength. It felt like running.”
“You ran toward something better.”
She shakes her head slowly. “Some days, it feels like I’m one bad call away from everything crumbling. Like I’m holding it all together with duct tape and hope.”
I nod, her words settling right into my chest.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I know the feeling.”
Her gaze flicks toward mine, curious.
“I think about it all the time,” I say. “The pressure. The responsibility. Everyone counting on me to be the guy who gets it right—because I carry the name, because I walked in with the keys to something I didn’t build.
” I look down at my beer. “People assume I coasted. That I was handed this. But every day feels like a test I’m not sure I’m passing.
” I pause. Then add, “If I fail… it’s not just my future that burns.
It’s theirs. My dads. The people who trusted me with everything they built.
” My eyes find hers again and I can see the understanding in them.
“So yeah. I get what it’s like to feel one step away from losing your grip on the one thing that matters. ”
The music around us thumps and pulses, but in this small bubble of space between us, something shifts.
For the first time since she’s come back to town, I’m not looking at Morgan Clemson, CEO and rival.
I’m seeing Morgan—the woman who carries burdens just as heavy as mine, who understands what it means to inherit a legacy.
And it makes me question everything about our current stalemate. What if there’s a different approach—one where neither of us has to lose?
The lights dim, casting the room in moody shadows. A rumble of bass vibrates through the floor, and the crowd starts shifting forward, instinctively gravitating toward the stage as the band takes their positions.
Morgan leans in close. “Come on,” she says, brushing her hand against my arm. “We’ve got a table.”
I blink. “Here?”
She leads me toward the side of the venue, weaving between tattooed shoulders and thrift-store sequins until we reach a low round table tucked off the main floor. A folded card sits in the center with our names scrawled across it in silver ink.
I raise a brow. “The VIP treatment? I’m flattered. Most people just bring me coffee.”
“You’re not most people.” She shrugs, slipping into the seat like it’s no big deal. “And the venue knew we were coming to scout the band. I figured we might as well have a place to breathe. Or drink. Or plot world domination.”
I sit beside her, my thigh brushing hers as the space closes in around us.
The lights onstage flicker, then surge as the band launches into their set with a gut-punch of synth and rhythm. The crowd roars to life, arms raised, bodies pressing in.
It’s loud, messy, alive. The kind of music that grabs you by the collar and dares you not to feel it.
Morgan slides another drink toward me from the tray the waitress drops off. Her hair catches the glow of the overhead lights, wild and beautiful, her mouth already curving into something that looks a lot like freedom.
The band launches into their first number, a wall of sound that reverberates through the floorboards and up into my chest. The crowd surges forward with approving cheers.
“They’re good,” I lean over to say into her ear. “Raw, but there’s something there. The lead singer has real presence.”
She nods, eyes on the stage. “They need development, but the foundation is solid.”
“They’d fit better at Left Turn than Stonewall,” I admit, surprising myself with the honesty.
“Left Turn knows how to nurture this kind of energy—take something unrefined and let it grow without stripping away what makes it electric. That kind of authenticity doesn’t survive in the mainstream unless someone protects it. ”
She turns to me, eyes wide. “Did you just concede an artist to me?”
I shrug. “I’m not always the villain, Morgan.”
Something changes in her expression—a softening I haven’t seen since before New York.
“No,” she says quietly. “I guess you’re not.”
By the third song, she’s bouncing in her seat, lip between her teeth, her whole body humming with the pulse of the room.
She looks at me and grins.
“Come on.”
“What?”
She stands, grabbing my hand. “You didn’t come all this way to sit still. Dance with me.”
“Morgan—”
“Don’t make me drag you.”
Too late. She’s already pulling me out of my chair, into the crush of bodies, into the heat and blur and throb of music making the bar feel like it might lift off the ground.
The beat swallows us whole.
Bodies press in on every side—a blur of sequins and sweat and flashing lights—but all I can feel is her, tethered to me by the grip of her fingers and the pull of something I can’t name.