Fight or Flight by Vanessa North Page B

his pixie.
    Was she still his pixie?
    He scrubbed his hands across his face. Why was he putting himself through this? He knew Josiah Beckett’s ’com number. He could easily find out if she was seeing anyone. I’m scared. Scared to find out maybe the intense attraction they’d felt had been simply circumstances.
    He still wanted her.
    Growling, he glared at the nondescript passenger quarters that would be his home over the next weeks. He had only weeks to convince her—hell, convince himself—they could make something work between them. Maybe they just needed a no-strings affair to work the lust out of their systems.
    Or maybe it was more.
    Maybe it was everything he’d fantasized it could be when he fell for her back in Solomon City.
    Whatever it was, he needed to stop hiding in his quarters. He had to get out, maybe for a workout, maybe to the mess. He couldn’t stay here though.
    Out in the corridor, he braced himself against the tide of colonists coming back from watching the light show taking place around the ship. In a moment of horrifying confusion, Elinor’s face flashed before his eyes, a trick of the light, because as soon as he focused she was gone, a memory. He knew she was dead, had been dead five years now, but sometimes, her memory surfaced like a superstitious tribute thrown out on the tides, washing up the following morning when all the fires on the beach had died. Why would she haunt him now? Now, when he was finally ready to move on?
    He didn’t know where the thought came from, or why he needed it, but it rang true.
    Fix me, pixie.

Chapter 16
    Tirzah ate alone in the mess, falling back into her usual routine. Not that she wanted to be alone, but it was simpler than cultivating new friendships. The court martial had been very public, and the media had not always portrayed her at her best. People weren’t sure about her yet, and that would take time to earn. Time she didn’t have, not now.
    After dinner she decided to go work out, swinging by her quarters to change. She hated the wrist-length workout suit she wore, but it covered her scars—all her scars—and she didn’t like to show weakness, or even evidence of past weakness, in front of the crew.
    Brad had decided to take a position on the ship as well, working in the boxing gym. The one voyage working as a personal trainer would pay him more than a six-month assignment as a Fleet physical therapist. She waved hello as she moved toward the weight machines. It was important to her to rebuild the muscle tone she’d lost during her imprisonment. Even a year and a half later, she still felt the effects of the periods of inactivity. It wasn’t that she loved working out; it was just part and parcel of living in altered gravity. The muscles and bones needed it, and even if she felt tortured at the end, she was way too familiar with the consequences of going without.
    She gritted her teeth as she lay under the bench press and pushed. Each rep would make her stronger, even as it tore her down. She needed it, counted on it, believed in it. If only everything in space were this fucking simple.
    * * * *
    Zeke saw her the moment he walked into the gym. He took a deep breath, willing his blood to stop racing at the sight of her. It was no use; in the tight workout suit, every curve of her athletic body was accented to perfection. Her hair hung in a ponytail down her back, and she grimaced with effort at every rep as she hoisted herself up on a chinner bar. The muscles in her arms shook as she pulled one last time and dropped. He remembered the first time he saw her, in almost exactly the same situation, watching her work out back in Solomon City.
    He was lost. He’d been prepared to see her again, but seeing her now, knowing her taste, her scent, the feel of her fingers on his body? God help him. He walked over to where she was recovering between sets.
    “Impressive.”
    She startled and looked up.
    “Zeke.” She sighed, a resigned smile crossing