"Francis, what exactly don't you hate?"
The biker's gaze suddenly shifted from the horizon, his whiskey tinted hues soon resting on the little lady who stood beside him, her arms resting on the railing of the turnpike bridge. It was clear Rochelle's eyes were full of wonder after much of their conversing on Francis' back-history, however, the news reporter began to shift in her place, failing to return the biker's gaze as she grew uncomfortable with the silence embedding itself around their fragile, temporary existence. Eventually, Rochelle forced out a small laugh in an attempt to break the silence, but an answer still had yet to depart from the ex-gang member's lips, so the woman instead returned her gaze to the flowing water below. Rochelle couldn't help but wonder why the smooth-talker suddenly couldn't keep pace anymore; but, rather than pressing on the idea, she instead began to desperately ponder changes of topic that could break the ensuing silence of the world around them. But, little did Rochelle know that Francis was in a journey of thought in his own, private world.
Francis wasn't a man of many words, but he knew his way around any card game; he knew how to smooth talk his way out of almost any situation, and into any situation if he so desired—but, when it came to Rochelle, the biker would always unexpectedly fold when he believed a clean sweep of victory was amongst him. The thought trundled through his mind like a bullet train that had no intention of stopping—not until it had the indication, at least.
There were many things in the world, even before the vampires started sucking the life out other living beings, that Francis had learned to come to existentially dread throughout his current life-span. Francis was a man that had journeyed many roads, but not all of them came with the pride he easily displayed on a regular basis—much like his current situation. The thumping of Francis' heart against his cage of bone felt like a timer on a bomb, each second dwindling away bringing him closer to the few words that could change the perception Rochelle learned to gain of him. At this point, it was futile for Francis to resist the desire to speak the words that sat on the tip of his tongue, and, with an exasperated sigh, the biker quickly spat it out, his voice clear and quite direct.
"But, I don't hate you."