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Love Thy Frenemy + Ch. 6

(Frenemies/ Tenderness AU)

SIX: A Terrible Thing to Bear

SIMON GHOST RILEY x FRENEMY FEM READER

Summary: Simon has compromised his own morals in his quest to discover who your secret lover is, but what he discovers is nothing compared to what he imagined. Tempers flare and harsh words are exchanged as the ugly truths you both have kept hidden come to light.

Warnings/Tags: Profanity, Angst, Hurt/No comfort - not yet anyway, Mentions of sex trade/prostitution, Obsessive/Possessive behavior, Jealousy, Simon is being stalker-ish, No use of Y/N

(Notes: This is a rough chapter, y’all. Simon does some questionable things, so fair warning. He’s allowed his obsession with this supposed lover of Reader’s to warp his perception of right and wrong, and his decisions reflect that. While I don’t condone this type of behavior, and I’m not trying to romanticize it at all, I still felt like it was in character with Simon and how he would cope with the situation, treating it like a mission to complete.)

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Word Count: 3350

Chapter 6

“Remorse is a terrible thing to bear, Pam, one of the worst of all punishments in this life. To wish undone something you have done, to wish you could look back on kindness to someone you love, instead of on unkindness - that is a very terrible thing.”

― Enid Blyton, House at the Corner

It felt like a betrayal of trust, what he was doing.

If he had allowed himself to think about it, maybe he would have acknowledged that, yes, it absolutely was a betrayal. However, Simon was in no mood to be swayed from his mission, not even by his own conscience. Even so, his moral compass had taken a severe hit this past week.

He had stolen your phone.

He had every intention of giving it back, he just needed to ‘borrow’ it for a few hours. Still, he felt like a right sorry bastard, having to witness how upset you were over its loss. He consoled himself with the knowledge that your small grief was only temporary and was ultimately for a good cause. If that useless tosser you were seeing wasn’t going to take care of you properly, then Simon needed to intervene. He was doing this for you, he told himself.

Funny, that he had to keep reminding himself of that.

The first order of business was to be able to track you once you left Banfield, thus his reason for stealing your phone. He drove the two hours to base, your cell phone weighing like a stone in his pocket, then handed it over to one of the lab rats in the tech department.

“Need t’be able to trace this long range,” he’d told the tech, handing over your phone.

“Anything else?” the tech asked expectantly.

Putting a tracker on your phone was bad enough. Simon shook his head. “Nah. That’ll do. Need it ASAP.”

The tech looked the cell over and shrugged. “Won’t take long. Are you sure you don’t need access to anything else, though? I can get you detailed logs of calls, texts, search history, locations—”

“Locations?” Simon interrupted. Now, that he would allow. “Can you pinpoint where they were last Sunday?”

The tech nodded, a rather smug expression on his face as he tilted his nose up in the air. “Well, I can tell you where the phone was... approximately.” He took the phone back to his terminal and hooked it up to his computer, then began typing. He hacked into it within minutes, your personal data scrolling down the computer screen. “Alright then, let’s see where you’ve been..." he mumbled to himself. Scrolling down the screen, he paused to ask, "Last Sunday, did you say?”

“Yeah,” Simon muttered, his large frame leaning over the shoulder of the smaller man, eager to see what he’d find.

"Time stamp?"

Simon erred on the side of caution. "Hm, let's say... 0900. They would have been traveling that morning. I need to know where they went."

The tech gave a quick nod. He scrolled for a few more seconds, his brows furrowing. “Huh. Bit of a rough borough,” he muttered. He glanced over his shoulder at Simon, his neck craned. “Judging by the pings, it looks like your target took the overtrain to Hackney last Sunday.”

“Hackney?!” Simon barked, making the tech jump in surprise. ”Where in Hackney?” he demanded.

The tech pushed his glasses back up his nose, blinking up at Simon’s skull mask with an owlish expression. He quickly turned back to the keyboard.

“I can’t pinpoint a specific location, like an address," he warned, fingers dancing over the keys, "but I can narrow it down to a general area." He began to scroll down through more data displayed on the screen and then moved to the side, pointing at the log.

“Your target reached their destination around eleven Sunday morning. They were stationary for about six hours at a location in Shoreditch. Looks like they were somewhere around the party block.” When Simon gave him a quizzical look, he explained. “Lot of clubs in that area. You know, dance clubs, strip clubs, bars and the like.” He peered up at Simon with a leering little smirk. “Your target isn’t a waitress or a stripper, is she? If she’s got some hot selfies. I could forward ‘em to ya,” he suggested, raising his eyebrows as he waggled your phone back and forth.

Anger, swift as a brush fire, swept through Simon in a flaming rush. The thought of this pervy little creeper going through your photos infuriated him. He yanked the phone away, laying it back on the desk before jabbing a finger into the tech’s boney shoulder. “Jus’ get the bloody tracker operational, then delete everything ya downloaded off that phone. All of it. Understood?”

The tech, realizing his mistake too late, gave a jerky nod as he scrambled to do as Simon commanded, shooting a nervous glance over his shoulder. Once the tracker was installed and activated on your phone, the tech disconnected it and deleted all your data from the system. Tapping the delete button on the last file, he proclaimed it, “Done and done,” with an air of smug bravado.

Simon eyed the younger man. There was just something about this weaselly little punter that didn’t sit right with him. He leaned down close to the tech’s face, skull mask close enough to brush his cheek. "Just a warnin', lad. If ya try t'pull a fast one, an' I find out ya kept, say, the file wif her pictures, I'll be back t'visit ya, an’ I won’t be as pleasant as I was this time.” He drew back to stare into his eyes. “We on the same page, mate?"

The terrified tech gulped, the knuckle of his Adam's apple bobbing up and down in his scrawny neck. "Y-Yes, sir," he breathed out in a quavering voice.

Simon straightened and clapped a big hand on the tech’s shoulder. "Good lad," he growled, squeezing his hand tight enough to make the young man's eyes widen in pain and panic. "Now get the receiver for the tracker goin’. I got places t’be."

The tech set to work with trembling hands, back spacing several times while typing to correct mistakes made with his nervous fingers. Finally, he managed to program a receiver and synced it to your cell phone, double-checking it before he passed it to the glowering lieutenant.

“S-Sorry about earlier, sir. I meant no offense,” he apologized, holding your phone out in offering.

Simon sneered at the tech as he snatched your cell phone from his hand and stalked out of the room without another word, absolutely seething with rage. However, he wasn't as angry at the little knob he'd just threatened as he was at you.

What the bloody hell were you doing in Shoreditch? It had one of the highest crime rates in London, and you were just traipsing around the bloody place? His worries increased tenfold at the thought of you walking the streets there after dark, sitting alone and exposed at some inner-city bus stop like a piece of ripe fruit for some low-life to pick at their leisure. Did that bastard you were seeing at least walk you to your stop, make sure you got on the bus safe?

Simon grunted. Probably not. The fact that it was you putting forth all the effort and taking the risks hadn’t escaped him. Fuckin’ minger didn’t give a shite about you. Simon would never let you go somewhere like Shoreditch alone, and he sure as hell wouldn’t let you walk the streets alone at night. Just the thought of it made him feel sick.

His stomach was tied in knots by the time he made it back to his truck and set out for Banfield once more.

It was a long drive home.

Sunday...

The train to Hackney came to a halt with a squeal of brakes and a loud hiss. When the automatic doors opened, you quickly stepped out and made your way through the terminal to the main street beyond. You kept your head down, not making eye contact with anyone. Huddling inside your da’s old army jacket, you took a seat on the bench at the bus stop and waited for the bus to Shoreditch.

You didn’t pay any mind to the dark sedan that pulled to the curb across and further up the street, didn’t notice the large silhouette of a man sitting behind the wheel. You kept your eyes straight ahead and pointed down at the grimy sidewalk.

Simon slouched in his seat, the receiver blinking rapidly beside him. He checked his rental car’s mirrors before focusing on you again, taking in your stony expression. At least you knew not to engage with people, stay to yourself. He made a mental note to ask if you carried anything for protection, pepper spray or a knife. Not that those would do much good against some chav with a gun. He gritted his teeth and gripped the wheel.

Your bus arrived and you climbed aboard, taking a seat near the back. Simon waited until it was further up the block but still easily within sight before pulling out to follow. He wasn’t worried about losing track of you now, but he still felt the need to stay close, just in case.

With each stop, Simon tensed, waiting for you to rise and disembark, thinking your secret lover must live in one of the residential buildings that crowded the streets, yet it wasn’t until the bus reached a narrow street lined with shuttered businesses― bars, clubs and cheap eateries mostly, that you stepped off the bus. He pulled to the curb again to watch but felt his heart rate tick up when you turned and began walking in his direction.

“Fuck,” he hissed, trying to slouch in the seat and make himself less visible.

Just before you reached his vehicle, you stopped before a shuttered store front, the facade painted an ugly, lurid rust red, its corrugated shutter a flat black and littered with graffiti. You raised your fist and banged on the shutter, keeping a wary eye out as you waited. A door to the side of the shutter swung open, an older, balding man poking his head out and motioning for you to come inside.

Simon watched you step through the door, disappearing from sight, his eyes travelling up to the name of the establishment printed on the sign above in bold, white letters. ‘The Grind’, it read and below that in a smaller font, ‘Gentleman’s Club’.

“What the bloody fuckin’ hell?” he snarled.

You had just entered a strip club.

You stood in the back near the dressing rooms, a mop bucket filling with water from a tap low on the wall. A cleaning trolley sat nearby, loaded down with everything you’d need. Your boss, Murray, was standing on the other side of the tap, his paunchy frame leaned against the bare brick wall as he tapped away at his phone. He glanced up at you as you shut off the tap and dunked the mop in the bucket.

“Be sure an’ give the private rooms a deep clean. Had a good night last night. The lads kept the girls busy,” he said with a leering smirk.

You tried to hide your disgust at the insinuation. Murray’s ‘girls’ were allowed to supplement their incomes by servicing the club’s clientele with sexual favors. He was little better than a street pimp, taking a cut of their profits for himself in exchange for a safe place to conduct their business. He had cameras hid in the private rooms to make sure none of the dancers shafted him, always keeping a sharp eye on his ‘investments’, as he called them.

If not for the fact he paid you so well, you wouldn’t be caught dead around a dive like this, wouldn’t ever bother to come to Shoreditch or Hackney at all. After moving away from this crime-infested area, you never wanted to return, but your financial situation demanded it. If it wasn’t for this job, you would have to work another part-time job when you weren’t on shift at the pub. Ollie paid you a fair wage, but it wasn’t enough to cover all your living expenses.

Picking up the jug of industrial cleaner from the cart, you poured a measure of it into the bucket of water, wrinkling your nose at its caustic smell. You had no doubt that this is what was damaging your hands. “Hey, Mur. Do ya think you could switch cleaners? This stuff is so strong it takes the skin off my hands.”

Murray shook his head. “That stuff kills everything. No matter what these filthy mingers bring in here, tha’ stuff will take care of it. Just― double up on the gloves ‘r somethin’,” he said over his shoulder as he headed back towards his office.

Arsehole, you thought, scowling after him. You’d have to try and hide your hands from Riley tonight. He’d be checking on them now and would fuss, you knew, no doubt asking more questions. You grimaced at the thought.

You didn’t like dodging his questions and skirting around the truth, but he just wouldn’t leave it alone, and it was getting kind of annoying. You appreciated that he was concerned about your welfare, but he was toeing the line of your personal boundaries, trying to make something his business that simply wasn’t.

You could admit that most of your hesitance to come clean with him was due to your own embarrassment. You were being paid to deep clean what was essentially a brothel. You were paid well for it, sure— well, you were paid hansdomely for your discretion also— but who would want to admit they earned their paycheck tossing out bin bags of used condoms and scrubbing sex rooms clean for a living? You could just picture the look of disgust on Riley’s face if he ever found out.

You blew out a frustrated breath. This whole situation was wearing thin on your patience. You needed to get started, otherwise you risked missing your bus back to the train station later, and you didn’t want to be in Shoreditch after dark, if you could help it. Deciding to start with the trash, first, you grabbed the roll of bin bags from the cart and set off for the private rooms.

Simon strolled past the Grind’s entrance for the third time, eyes darting around beneath the hood of his sweatshirt as he eyed the security camera over the door. He’d spotted others while casing the building, all of them unfortunately operational, save one. It was located at the side emergency exit above the door, lifeless, its red light dead.

It was his best hope of entry, but it was far from optimal. The alleyway was wide to allow vehicle access, so it was kept clear with few places to hide, far more exposed than he would have liked. He had also checked the emergency door during his first recon of the building, only to find that it was alarmed and locked tight. It wasn’t impregnable, he could still get in, but he would need to bypass the alarm as well as pick the locks, which would take time, and he would need to do all this without being spotted.

It was a recipe for disaster, he knew, his chances of being caught by some random pedestrian high. He was dressed casually, and he’d chosen to wear his surgical mask to draw less attention, but his size was an issue; his large, towering frame drew the curious glances of those he passed. Add that to being dressed in dark clothes and masked, if he was spotted loitering about the exit for too long, someone was bound to report him.

He needed a better look at the alarm and the locks to give him an idea of what this risky endeavor would entail. Turning down the alleyway once more, he kept a leisurely pace, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, seemingly relaxed, just a guy taking a shortcut to get to the next street over. His eyes shifted as he came even with the door, his steps slowing just a fraction, all attention focused on the locks.

He wasn’t expecting the door to suddenly burst open, and he startled, his body turning to face the door head-on. His eyes went wide when you came pushing out the door, hands full of bin bags. Your head shot up at the scuffing sound of his boots on the pavement, startled yourself, your mouth falling open to gasp as your eyes went wide in surprise.

“Riley?!”

Simon felt like a deer in headlights. You’d caught him red handed, nosing around, and only then did he consider how bad this must look. He could already tell by the way you were looking at him that he was about to catch all sorts of hell, so he acted accordingly.

Squaring off as he scowled at you, he growled, “The fuck is this, Dee? You an’ me are goin’ t’have a talk!”

“Oh, you fuckin’ bet we are!” you snapped back, flinging the bin bags down as you marched towards. him. You jabbed your finger at him as you gave him a baleful look. “You followed me,” you accused, voice low and angry. “You just couldn’t stand not knowing, could ya? You just had to know, so you followed me here, doggin’ my steps like some bloody’ creeper.” You glared at him, mouth pinching up in anger. “I am so fucking pissed at you, right now.”

Feeling defensive and irrationally betrayed, he glared at you, speaking in a venomous tone. “Don’t give a fuck how pissed ya are,” he huffed, then scoffed at your shocked expression. “So, this is yer big secret? Ya give lap dances to dirty old pervs to pay yer rent?”

You wouldn’t have been more shocked if he had slapped you across the face. He’d said plenty of mean things to you in the past when the two of you argued, but he had never been cruel to you like this. Never. Pain as sharp as a dagger pierced your heart, but quickly morphed into fury. A thunderous look darkened your expression. Before you knew what you were about, you planted your hands on his chest and shoved him, hard. It caught him off guard enough that he staggered a step back, eyes going wide in surprise.

“Don’t you ever speak to me like that again!” you snarled, stepping away. “Better yet, don’t fuckin’ speak to me at all.” You spun on your heel and went back to the door, only then noticing it had closed behind you. You were locked out. Growling in frustration and on the verge of tears, you curled your hands into fists and began marching stiffly towards the street exit. You’d have to get Murray to let you back in.

Simon came around you and blocked your way, his eyes full of rage until he saw the expression on your face. Tears were threatening to spill, hurt sharp and bright in your eyes. “Doll, listen. I―”

“I trusted you. You were supposed to be my friend.” Your breath hitched, and a tear rolled down your face. You gave a furious shake of your head when he opened his mouth and hurried to step around him. You couldn’t do this anymore.

“Doll, wait!” he called after you, but you shook your head and walked faster.

“Don’t, Riley. Just...leave me alone.” Your voice wavered on the last word, and you broke into a jog, hurrying around the corner and out of sight.

Simon stared after you, the reality of what he’d just done, what he’d just said to you, settling in his chest like cold lead, his heart crushed beneath the weight of his own remorse.

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