A Flare Of Hope (The Jaylior Series Book 1)

by Elodie Colt

  A girl wandering the streets stopped in front of me. Her face was hidden under a huge white umbrella with red and green dots. Who had such awful taste to buy an umbrella with that design?

  The girl positioned the umbrella over my head to shelter us both from the pouring rain. I looked up at the stranger. She had a lovely face framed by deep black shiny hair. The smile she gave me was so full of warmth, I instantly felt better.

  “Hey, you, what are you doing out here alone in this damn weather? You must be freezing your ass off.”

  I was stunned into silence. I wasn’t accustomed to being approached by strangers. Nobody had noticed me lately.

  She let out a carefree laugh at my shocked expression and, not waiting for a response, held out her hand to help me up. “Come on, sweetie. Whatever you’re brooding over, you can brood over under a roof, some warm blankets, and a cup of hot chocolate. My place is only a few blocks away, and I have plenty of space. You can come with me. What’s your name?”

  And that was the start of a new friendship.

  Lauren took me to her apartment and tended to me. I stayed at her place for almost two years. As her parents had moved to the other end of the world due to a job Lauren’s father had accepted, the place belonged entirely to her. Three families could have lived in the luxurious two-story apartment that must have cost millions. Well, with a father who was an executive in the oil business, I guessed money wasn’t an issue.

  Lauren managed to get me to do things that had already been a lost cause for me, like cooking, playing cards, reading a book, or going for a swim in her pool. I was having fun again doing these things. Lauren knew something must have happened to reduce me to the emotionless mess I was, but she’d never pried for information. Instead, she patiently waited until I was ready to pour out my heart to the only person who cared.

  Lauren was the closest person to family I had, and the girl seemed determined to care for me like a sister.

  A few weeks later, my attitude changed. At first, I was numb, careless, and drunk most of the time. Later, my fucked-up mind changed tactics. I would go out dancing every night and have fun, even taking men home with me. I drowned my troubles in passion and sex. A few of them had confessed deeper feelings, but I never returned them and always made a run for it in search of another to satisfy my needs.

  I didn’t have a job, and living off of Lauren for the duration of my stay didn’t sit well with me. After some time, I became bolder flirting with random males to get them to buy me clothes or pay my rent. This was when it clicked that I was taking money from men in exchange for sex.

  I’d hit rock bottom.

  So, I ran to Lauren for help to get me out of my shithole. Lauren offered me a job at the bar she was working at—Joey’s. That was when things finally started to improve, and I moved back to my apartment.

  Present

  Lauren’s pitiful look dragged me out of my thoughts. “I’ll see you on Friday, okay?” I said in a rasped voice.

  “Yeah.”

  With a sad look, Lauren ascended the stairs to the front door of her apartment. I turned to make my way home but stopped short when Lauren shouted after me.

  “Haylie!” Lauren’s eyes grew tender, and a small smile played across her lips. “You’re right. You’ll never be the same person as before, and yes, the pain will never completely go away, but it will get easier because you won’t be lonely forever. You may not have any biological family left, but you’ll find yourself a new one. You’ll find a man who loves you with his whole heart and cares for and understands you and will be there for you when things go to hell. You are seen, Haylie… it’s you who has to see.” I smiled at Lauren’s encouraging words, and her smile grew bigger in response. “And I have this strange feeling in my gut that the time will soon come for you to find the one who’s destined to be yours. He’s out there, I promise you. He’s just waiting for you to look at him.”

  “That’s good to know,” I replied, continuing to walk down the sidewalk and waiting to round the corner before running into a sprint.

  After Shawna’s death, my clumsiness got worse. I’d make face plants on the floor after tripping over my own feet or fall flat on my bed due to wrong estimations of distance. I descended the stairs in rolls and tumbled more often rather than walking straight. One day, I fell on the asphalt while crossing the street and was nearly hit by a van. I then realized that I had to do something about it.

  Lauren gave me the advice to start meditating as it would center my internal energy and help me improve my concentration and physical balance. At that point, I would have tried anything, so I rummaged through YouTube videos and online blogs and started meditating. After some weeks, I managed to improve my body control, but I was still clumsy enough to need the handrail for support while descending the stairs.

  So, I started to train. At first, I ran up and down the stairs at least fifty times a day to improve my balance. I learned to pirouette watching ballet videos for hours which turned out to be a big challenge for someone who could trip over their own toes. The training helped me greatly, and I also found that I was having fun. It gave me an opportunity to get out my aggressions while getting in better shape.

  After some time, I was so good at it, I started doing parkour professionally. The apartments in Baltimore were perfect for that sort of training. There were endless possibilities to jump over rooftops, climb ladders, descend frameworks, or slide balustrades. When I was doing parkour, I was in perfect balance—no one would think about me being clumsy. Training was the solution, but there were still a few moments when that weakness would take over—like tonight.

  I didn’t even know if it was just clumsiness. In my opinion, clumsiness needed obstacles to fall over, whereas I could plummet down like a potato sack without an obstacle in a ten-mile radius. No, it was more like a balancing problem, and I often wondered if it had something to do with the missing pupillary reflex that time in the hospital. Maybe the concussion had damaged the part of my brain responsible for my motor activity? Several doctors checked me, but they all confirmed that nothing was wrong with me.

  Now, parkour was my way of getting around. I couldn’t afford a car, but it didn’t matter as parkour was the fastest way to stay mobile in the city. However, I was more comfortable doing it at night blending in with the darkness. Somehow, I liked the thrill of the possibility to stalk people through windows nobody but I could climb or flee from the police after committing a crime. Not that I’d ever done either of those things, but being invisible gave me a freedom that allowed my mind some peace. Lauren didn’t know about my uncommon hobby, and I wanted to keep it that way. She’d worry too much about me getting hurt.

  I landed on the roof of my apartment a few minutes later panting heavily from my early morning workout. From that vantage point, I had a splendid view of the sunrise.

  Whenever sun rays touched my skin, I felt oddly at ease. It was like the warm light cleared my mind and refilled my energy. I watched the changing colors in the sky and indulged in the silence and peace that would soon be over when people started hurrying to work.

  A lake glistened in the far distance, its surface reflecting the sunlight in a vivid grid of golden glitter. The view always made me nostalgic.

  Mum had loved the water, the beach, the heat. We used to spend summer holidays in Florida, the Côte d’Azur, the Maldives, or whatever sunny paradise she wished to go. Shawna and I had always looked forward to two weeks of swimming, sandcastle building, diving, and waterskiing. I smiled when I recalled Shawna’s sun-bleached hair. I’d always envied her for the silver strands highlighting her golden mane because mine never seemed to be affected by the sun at all.

  I couldn’t help but let my thoughts wander back to what Lauren had said. Over the last four years, I hadn’t wasted a single thought on having a family with a husband, children, and pets. Somehow, my mind had labeled that an impossibility not worth brooding over.

  Was there really a man out there who was meant f
or me? Someone who understood me? Someone who could handle my broken self? Someone who could love me with all my flaws and my terrible past?

  And if yes, would it ever be possible for this love to make me happy again?

  The punching bag in front of me swayed back and forth from the impact of my kicks. If it were a living creature, it would be incapable of fighting back by now. Diagnosis—a dislocated jaw, at least three missing teeth, a broken collarbone, and most certainly a torn spleen. Maybe the punching bag wouldn’t get life-threatening injuries, but it looked rather used and worn out at the edges. A few stitches were already plunging open. Shit. If Chris saw I’d ruined another one, he’d throw a tantrum.

  Training had come too short the last few days resulting in me becoming impatient, aggressive, and not a nice person to be around, so I was glad I could let out my energy today. Sometimes, life got fucking boring down here, and I was itching for a real fight up in the open—my Fighter blood driving me crazy with the need to throw some punches. Sweat ran down my face, a few droplets captured by my eyebrows. My muscles were burning, but I thrived in the feeling of having used them properly.

  I walked over to the benches on the side of the large training hall taking the towel to dab my neck and forehead dry.

  “Hey, Dylan, there you are. I’ve been looking for you every… where…”

  The sound of Chris’ voice made me whirl around. Damn, I’d hoped to be out of the training area before anyone noticed the mess I made.

  Chris stopped short in his tracks and glared open-mouthed at the mishandled training object. “Dylan, you must be fucking kidding me!”

  I switched my gaze to the object in question just in time to see one chain link fixing the bag to the ceiling snap, causing it to slide dangerously low where it hung on for dear life and swayed from one side to another in a lopsided position.

  “Needed to let off some steam,” I said. “And the bags you bought are crap.”

  “Well, maybe because they aren’t meant for a full-grown Fighter but the Freshmen. Go out and join a boxing club if you want to break some bones.” Chris grunted in annoyance.

  I laughed at his comment. Other than myself, Chris preferred training alone while going through heavy choreographies like a monk. I didn’t like fighting ‘air.’ I needed an opponent, preferably one who could challenge me, which was a rare case… unfortunately.

  I liked the feeling of my limbs connecting with my foe hearing bones crunching, feeling sinews tearing, and seeing blood spraying. Although I was proficient with most long-range weapons, I was born for hand-to-hand combat. What can I say—it was in my blood, after all.

  “Yeah… fighting normal humans? Great challenge,” I muttered.

  Unfortunately, there weren’t enough Roes, as we called our race, yet to form a boxing club—at least not in this part of the state. I’d never met a Fighter who was a match for me except for Chris, but Chris wasn’t a foe, so the adrenaline rush wasn’t the same.

  Chris sighed after combing a hand through his blond hair crossing his arms in front of his chest that bulged under his gray shirt. “This is the third one you ruined in a month. I doubt Jimmy’s budget allows me to buy another one so soon.”

  I put my black t-shirt over my head, closed the zipper of my training bag, and buckled it over my right shoulder. “It’s still hanging in place and is in good enough condition to be manhandled by the rookies for the rest of the year,” I added with a laugh, which resulted in Chris shooting me another hostile glare.

  Just as I was about to leave, a loud crash made us both whip around. The punching bag had lost its fight with gravity landing in a puff of dust on the floor. The leather split open in a few places before the chain trickled to the floor with tinkling sounds. I slowly turned back to Chris and cleared my throat.

  “Yeah, you’re totally right, man. It’s still in perfect condition,” Chris muttered dripping sarcasm.

  I shrugged nonchalantly. “I’ll buy you a new one.” I slapped Chris on the shoulder as he continued to stare at the mess in front of him.

  “Whatever. Hey, I think you should go upstairs and pay the others a visit. Phil and Ricky are spitting at each other like teenage girls. Surprise there! It’s been going on for over an hour now,” Chris said, and I frowned at him.

  “Why? What’s going on now?”

  Chris shook his head. “I don’t know, man. I just happened to hear the shouting from outside. Wasn’t keen on going in there.”

  I sighed in annoyance. Ricky and Phil were known to be argumentative, and I was so tired of the responsibility of sorting out their bickering.

  “What about Jimmy? He has more control over Phil than I have. Jimmy can sort this out smoothly. If I do it, I’ll kill at least one of them.” I tried to shove the matter off. I was no good at arbitrating fights—I was usually the one initiating them.

  Chris barked out a short laugh. “Actually, I wouldn’t mind if you gave Phil a well-planted hook to the chin to shut his big mouth. And no, Jimmy can’t sort it out this time. He set off to the tunnels a while ago… there seems to be a leak in one of the gas pipes that needs fixing. Just get your ass up there, and make sure they don’t have a real go at each other. Not that I care, but you don’t want to piss off Jimmy.”

  “I won’t make any promises,” I replied dryly.

  “And get me a damn new punching bag by next week! I’m tired of dragging them down here,” Chris shouted after me, and I gave him a thumbs-up over my head forgetting about the bag as soon as I was out the door.

  I made my way out of the training hall as whistles, shouts, grunts, fighting cries, and other unidentifiable noises came from the huge underground area to my left. This one was built for two purposes—for hand-to-hand combat and endurance training. The training hall I’d just exited consisted of barbells, punching bags, of course, and every other kind of sports equipment meant to build up muscles, gain strength, and steel the body.

  This area was open on all four sides of the rectangular space supported by concrete pillars, giving the people in the surrounding hallways a full view of the area. It was usually the busiest part of the compound which was accessible to everyone twenty-four hours a day.

  Big training mats littered the ground filled with people of all ages fighting, punching, and kicking each other. A few victims were spread out on the wooden benches surrounding the mats. In my opinion, they were pussies—all of them. I even saw one boy—he didn’t seem to be much older than eighteen—wincing and whining as Sarah, our Regenerator, tended to a tiny cut above his eyebrow.

  I shook my head in disbelief. I was glad I was free of the duty to train those newbies any longer. They were stupid and incompetent, incapable of learning, discipline, and accepting advice. I wondered how the next generation would defend themselves, let alone fight out there.

  Between the hand-to-hand combat area with the mats in the middle and the wide aisles circling it, there was a long raceway meant for running and other exercises to gain stamina.

  Scott, the best Tracer in our crew, was currently drilling his class to run a few rounds, but half of them had already given up. One even rushed over to a garbage can to vomit, which wasn’t an uncommon reaction for someone not used to pushing their body to the limits every day. It was a long and painful training phase to adjust to the high lactate level. Scott was forced to blow his whistle and stop the lesson. He ran over to the boy still forcefully heaving while the others gladly fell on the ground barely catching their breath.

  My gaze fell upon a familiar woman with bright blonde, flaxen hair currently fighting against a brunette while the surrounding people cheered them on. The brunette was already dripping blood on the floor streaming down the corner of her mouth, but she kept her fighting stance with her fisted hands lifted as she braced herself for an attack. The blonde, Cassie, smiled viciously and didn’t give her opponent time to recover.

  She quickly spun forward, hair flying around her head with the motion, dropped low, and gave the other a well-
placed kick right in the knee cap. The brunette let out a strangled cry, her knee buckling, and slumped down to the floor. Her face twisted in pain as her hands clamped around her new wound.

  Cassie was already back on her feet, not caring in the slightest of having beaten a much younger opponent—probably not even a member of her Intermediate group—ready for a visit to the hospital wing. Cassie was a great fighter, quick and effective in her movements. She was a snake hiding behind bushes and striking at the right time. Her enemies were known to live through painful seconds before death released them.

  Although we both shared the passion for a real fight, I didn’t get a high from fighting dirty. I wanted to earn the victory, not steal it. And I certainly had no intention of fighting against innocents—one of the reasons why you had to be very careful when it came to Cassie.

  I returned my gaze straight ahead. I didn’t understand why Cassie indulged so much in the feeling of hurting others. She dominated over everything she wanted to control and didn’t care about what she had to do to get what she craved.

  I laughed to myself when thinking about having this vicious woman pinned under me not that long ago. She was a lion in bed, certainly skilled to satisfy a man’s needs, but it never meant more to me. Which was why, one day, sex with her didn’t provide the high I was looking for anymore.

  I wasn’t proud of the fact I’d been hooking up with her for nearly six months. Ricky still made jokes about it to annoy me. Cassie’s attitude became worse ever since I ‘broke up’ with her—not that I’d ever classified our thing as anything close to a relationship. I’d hurt her feelings, but she would never admit it. No, not Cassie. Cassie would turn around with her chin held high ready to blame someone else for her misfortune.

  I was forced to stop when someone abruptly cut in front of me.