With Her Own Two Hands

By Tasha L. Harrison

Julian Webster needs a muse.

After leaving Philadelphia to escape a woman who couldn’t love him the way he needed, he’s beginning to wonder if he left every creative cell in his body back there too.

Agostina Malone knows that too much heartbreak can make you bitter.

She loves the idea of love but knows she's just not built for it. Good sex, recognition from those she loves and respects, close relationships with friends and family — those were the things she craved. But romantic love? No. Romantic love can drain you. Steal your light. Leave you empty and depressed. But with her own two hands she has carved out the life she wants, the life she can manage.

Big, broody Julian keeps invading her sacred spaces, and they share a wall at ArtCrush Studios, making him impossible to escape. Agostina offers her spiritual practices to help him snap out of it. But even a fistful of crystals and all the mojo bags in the world can't seem to put this man right. Maybe a mojo bag isn't what he needs...

Maybe they both need something only love can cure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryant Street Publishing
• Release date: Jan 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9781094433004

Tasha L. Harrison

Often accused of navigating life without a filter, Tasha L. Harrison has managed to brand herself as the author who crafts characters and stories that make you feel all of the feels. She writes African American, interracial and intercultural erotica and erotic romance with heroines just as brazen, emotionally messy, and dramatic as herself and heroes that love them anyway.  She also edits romance because love stories are her business.  Tasha’s work and information on her editing rates and services can be found at tashalharrison.com.

Book preview

chapter one

Agostina

The space I parked my van in was about a block or so away from Ink Blue Yoga. I killed the engine and while it ticked and popped, I took a few minutes to settle myself. I slept horribly last night and the red bird that lived in the tree outside my bedroom window woke me up before the sun this morning, but sticking to a routine was important. So…here I was at the seven a.m., Advanced Vinyasa Flow class. And ten minutes early to boot.  

A sharp rap on my passenger side window startled me and I opened my eyes to see my big sister smiling at me from the opposite side of the glass. 

Come on, Soni said, with an impatient wave of her hand. If we don’t hurry, we’ll lose our spot. 

Our spot.

The fact that I had to arrive earlier than usual to what I once considered the best part of my day was damn irritating. Why was it irritating? One reason: Julian Webster.

Young, accomplished, and lauded; when Julian Webster landed in Greenville a year ago, he made a big splash. He was handsome, very talented, and very fucking single. I knew this because he’d recently rented the studio next to mine and the parade of women was endless. Not that I cared about that. It was his presence at my seven a.m. yoga class that really fucked with me. 

Not that I’d ever admit to that.

Anyway… so Saxon wants us all to come over tonight.

Shit. At some point, I’d started a conversation with Soni.

They're are trying out some new food and drink recipes for the summer menu and they want our opinions.

Ah… okay. I can make time for that, I said, glad that I had missed nothing vital. 

I just wanna support them, you know? Soni said.

No, I get it. Our sister had recently reunited with her baby daddy and become the owner and head chef of Kinfolks, a meat-n-three restaurant that she inherited from Mr. Kemp, the previous owner, and longtime family friend. That would be a lot of change for anyone, but especially for someone who has been ignoring her past mistakes and was in a state of arrested development for too many years to count. 

And Saxon has been trying really hard to blend in with the family. Mama Malone isn’t making it easy…

When does Eudora Malone make anything easy? I joked as I opened the door and held it for Soni to enter ahead of me. 

The sweet, woodsy scent of Palo Santo and the sound of mellow roots reggae greeted me as I followed my sister across the threshold into Ink Blue. This yoga studio was a sanctuary for me. Well… it was before he started attending. 

I didn’t want to notice him, but it was hard not to. He’s the only man in the class — and a big one at that. When he came in, he took up a lot of space. Not just physical space, but mental space — psychic space. It crackled like the static on a TV. Fizzed and popped like a message I had to tweak the antenna to receive clearly. He made me feel twitchy.  

He distracted me. 

And not just because he was attractive. I mean, he was attractive. He was damn beautiful with his soft, sad brown eyes. 

But why was he so sad?

Grasping the beads around my neck, I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. He was seated in the lotus position, back straight, eyes closed, slowly filling his lungs with deep breaths and then letting it puff out of his parted lips. Sunshine poured into the window, highlighting the yellow undertones in his skin. He looked comfortable and serene… 

And he was in my fucking spot.

Calm down, Aggie. This isn’t elementary school. There are no assigned seats.

Except it was my assigned seat. Had been since Estelle opened the place a few years ago. The sunlight always warmed that spot more than it did anywhere else in the big open room. Feeling that warmth made it easy for me to sink into each pose and achieve a deeper meditative state. I haven’t been able to get there lately because Julian Webster’s mere presence and his big, sad boy energy made that nearly impossible. How fucking early did he wake up to get here before me, anyway?

I stepped up to the counter where my sister and Estelle, her best friend and owner of the studio, were chatting. Hey, Stelle. Can I get a bottle of water?

Of course, Estelle stepped behind the cash wrap to grab me a bottle of water out of the fridge. You know… you could always ask him for your spot back, Aggie. He’s a nice guy. I’m sure he would say yes. 

I furrowed my brow and looked at Julian again. Nice? Nice wasn’t a word I’d use to describe him. Grumpy and sad, sure, but nice? Nah… he seems to need the sun on his skin more than I do, I said finally, even though I could hear the irritation in my words.

Estelle and Soni chuckled, and I rolled my eyes — certain that they were assigning undue importance to my actions. Ignoring them, I crossed the room and rolled out my mat right next to Julian’s. I usually avoided bad energy like it was my job, but I couldn’t stay away from this big, broody man. As much as it unsettled me, I felt it was important to be near him and offer some calming energy. Of course, I could explain why I reacted to him this way, but it would involve sharing emotions that weren’t mine, which kinda felt like spreading rumors or talking behind his back. And that would lead to a different conversation about my abilities. 

I wasn’t psychic or nothing… I just knew things. That’s the way I’ve explained this gift I was born with and have honed over the years. This gift of being too sensitive in a world full of prickly pines and sharp edges. Anyway, I knew that wouldn’t make sense to Estelle, so I didn’t bother. 

I was four years old the first time I felt that telltale full-body tingle before I was deluged with feelings that weren’t my own. Vibes, aura, energy; lots of people called it different things, but no matter how you labeled it, I was gifted or cursed — my perception shifted depending on the day—with the ability to feel what everyone was feeling all the fucking time. On a good day, it could be inspiring, invigorating, and even pretty fucking addictive. But other days, like today, it felt like an imposition. An intrusion of emotions that I didn’t want to be burdened with.

And his emotions were a burden right now. 

It wasn’t just the sadness that distracted me, though. There was something underneath it. Yearning, maybe? A deep longing that he wanted to be rid of? Yes, longing, that was it. He was sick with it. It felt like a fever. The kind that sapped strength from your limbs and made you just want to sleep and sleep for days. How he could even be awake and moving through life with all of that weighing him down was a mystery. Why I could feel all of that so keenly was another. I shouldn’t be able to feel any of his big, sad boy feelings. Not when I was wearing my Empath Tool Kit.

I twitched my wrist and my beaded bracelets—hematite and black tourmaline to keep away negative energy and amethyst to calm my easily agitated aura—shimmied against my skin. Hm. Maybe they needed to be cleansed? I’d do that when I got home, but it didn’t really help me now. Not with this big, sad man spilling his feelings in the air and fucking with my zen. I allowed nothing or no one to fuck with my zen.

Alright, everyone! Let’s get to your mats! Estelle said cheerfully. 

Estelle lead us through a gentle sun salutation that warmed up my muscles and expanded my lungs. She transitioned from that into a rigorous upper body flow.

Now, let’s take a deep breath, and on your next exhale, I want you to sink into Chaturanga Dandasana, Estelle said. 

I exhaled from my down dog into chaturanga. This pose always made me feel strong. My body and my shoulders were just parallel to my elbows. It was a tough position to hold, but it used every muscle. I liked to hold it for a long time. Until my whole body felt strung tight and trembling. Like an arrow ready to launch from a drawn tight bow. 

Next to me, the big, sad man whooshed out a loud, long breath and pushed his body into up-dog. His murky energy rushed out of him in waves that drained me with their intensity.

You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me... 

Yoga was one of my favorite ways to relax because most of it was about pushing energy out and away from me, but Julian seemed to have mastered that too, so I was getting everything he was trying to release. In my peripheral, he went down into his chaturanga. Eyes closed. Sweat trickled down the column of his neck and down into his damp tank top; biceps bunched and straining. Then, instead of just remaining static, he brought one knee up, nearly meeting his shoulder, flaunting his strength and flexibility. But the sadness and longing still came off of him in a wave of pheromones and feelings that made my head swim.

Yeah, I’m not gonna make it through this.

I pushed up to my feet, grabbed my bag, and ducked into the small locker room at the back of the studio. A quick look in the mirror found me flushed and overheated in a way that had nothing to do with exerting myself. Another symptom — or side effect, depending on how you want to classify this thing. I dug around in my bag until I found the bottle of No Bad Vibes spray my sister Soni mixed for me. I closed my eyes and sprayed the mixture of lavender, sage, witch hazel, and rosemary on my face and hair. By the time the spray dried, I was feeling a bit better, but still sad for that man out there.

What am I going to do about this man?

Straddling a bench, I emptied the contents of my bag in search of my tarot cards. Once found, I unwrapped and shuffled them.

Three cards: problem, cause, solution.

The Hermit reversed. Hmm… so he wasn’t taking enough time for personal reflection or has taken too much time. I struggled with this myself. Sometimes my own personal reflection resulted in isolating or cutting myself off from others. Considering that I never saw him outside of this yoga studio and ArtCrush where our studios were located, that made a lot of sense. Outside of that one gallery show when he first arrived, no one has seen him out. That qualified as hermit-ing, right?

I knew nothing about the man’s personal life, but that seemed legit to me.

Card number two was the cause of his problem: The Emperor… also reversed. My impression was based on just reading his energy, but he seemed like he was a bit obsessed with pretending like he had everything under control when he so obviously didn’t. 

That tracked.

And last… the solution: The Lovers?

I frowned and tapped the card thoughtfully. Most people assume The Lovers card was about romantic relationships, but in reality, it was about making a decision. What choice did he need to make? Did he need to walk away from someone or something? How could I help him do that?

Do I have a crystal for that?

I always carried random crystals with me for this exact reason. As I sifted through the contents of my bag, my fingertip skimmed over a polished stone that gave me a zap of static electricity. A shiny, bright blue square of lapis lazuli.

Huh, well, that’ll definitely help him make a decision, I muttered aloud. 

I took a picture of the tarot spread, labeled it, and saved it to a folder on Google Drive, then stuffed everything back into my bag. Everything but the lapis lazuli, of course. 

A soft knock sounded at the door of the locker room, and my sister stepped inside. Hey, sis. You okay in here?

Damn. Is the class over already? Time is so slippery…

Yeah, I said, painting on a smile. Just got a little overwhelmed…you know how it is.

Soni smirked and then nodded. Well, we’re heading across the street for breakfast.

Okay. I shouldered my bag and followed her back out to the studio. A few of the participants were still milling about. Some were sitting on their mats and chatting. And there was Julian, still on his back, eyes closed, deep in shavasana. The sadness was like a sticky energy puddle around him.

I rolled up my mat and repacked my yoga bag slowly, hoping that he would open his eyes and I could give him the crystal, but he continued to lay there, quiet and still. 

You weren’t supposed to disturb someone in shavasana. I knew this. It was a time for deep meditation. But that didn’t stop me from standing over him and hoping my presence would rouse him. 

Poor sad man. Carrying all that must be exhausting.

I squatted down and looked at him. He had a face that made me wish I was a sculptor. Those cheekbones. They were high, angled, and sculpted. His usually furrowed, dark, heavy brows were relaxed and his lips were slightly parted. Those lips looked silky to the touch. I wanted to trace his thick brows and that supple mouth with the tip of my finger. Would he feel warm? Or would the surface of his skin feel cool and smooth like clay? He had a face I would have loved to mold with my thumbs and fingertips until I’d memorized every line and shape.

I shook away that thought and took the Lapis Lazuli, now warmed by my hand, and placed it between his brows. His eyes fluttered open almost immediately.

What the fu—

Lapis Lazuli, I interrupted before he could cuss me out. It stimulates objectivity and clarity and will help you with whatever decision you’re struggling to make, I added with a wink.

I—

You’re welcome! I chirped, feeling relieved to have that off my chest. If you have any questions, you can ask me later at the studio. Have a good morning! Feeling lighter, I jumped to my feet and followed my sister and Estelle across the street to Kinfolks.

chapter two

Julian

Laughter carried across the back garden of ArtCrush, drawing my attention to the group of artists seated in Adirondack chairs under a canopy of Japanese maples. It was a studio workday at the collective. A day when all the artists gathered to clean up the interior and exterior of the hundred-year-old building. 

The meeting began with Anne Trudeaux, owner of the building and fellow oil painter, listing repairs that needed to be made, announcing upcoming events, and any other miscellaneous information that she wanted to pass on — including the health of the studio dogs. Afterward, we branched off to complete our designated chores. Mine was to clean up the back garden. I chose it because it was physical outdoor work, and kept me away from the chatting and socializing that went on inside the main building. Socializing that had spilled out to the fire pit after our shared lunch of hotdogs, hamburgers, and chips. 

The laughter rose and fell again, one voice louder than the others. A voice I recognized. One that belonged to Agostina Malone.

It had only been a few hours since she had broken my unsuccessful meditation by placing a blue rock on my forehead. It stimulates objectivity and clarity and will help you with whatever decision you’re struggling to make, she’d said. As if it were completely normal to pretend to know the inner struggles of strangers and offer solutions. Never mind that she was accurate. The behavior was just bizarre.

Besides, it wasn’t necessarily an awe-inspiring prediction, was it? People struggled with making decisions about everything from what they wanted to eat for breakfast to whether or not they should call their ex to tell them they missed them every day, right?

Nope. Not gonna think about that. 

I mopped the sweat from my brow and picked up the garden shears to continue pruning the curtain of bougainvillea so that it still looked wild, but didn’t crumple the fence under its weight.

Shouldn’t even be here. 

And I wouldn’t have shown up if I’d remembered the date. I would have made myself unavailable if I realized that this day was coming up. I would have booked a stay in some isolated beach house on the Carolina coast. I would be so high and so drunk right now that my sorrows wouldn’t be able to reach me. But I forgot the date. Forgot to block it on my calendar and I’d made a promise to myself earlier this year that I would attempt to participate in the events at ArtCrush. I needed to form a connection with the people and the community that had been so welcoming to me. So I didn’t cancel. I showed up. I was taking part in studio day even though I wanted to get high and sleep until I forgot that this was the day that I asked Yves Santiago to be my wife. 

Has it really been two years?

Of course, I knew it had been two years. This time last year I’d met her and Elijah in Atlanta to…reconnect. I thought enough time had passed. I thought I could see her — see them — and not get caught up in what might have been. 

I was so fucking wrong.

But again, someone should tell that to my heart because even though I went no contact with her after those seventy-two hours I spent with them, I still felt the need to reach out. Still wanted to hear her raspy voice on the other end of the line, and the tears she would cry as she told me how much she missed me, even when she was in bed with him.

No. I’m not gonna do that this year. I moved here for a reason.

Moving to a small town in Upstate South Carolina had the desired effect in the beginning. I came here to teach a painting class at the Governor’s School for the Arts and Humanities. It served artistically talented high school students from all over the state. The program was rigorous, and I got so much fulfillment from working with those kids. I missed them and that classroom energy now that we were on summer break.

The artist community was also a huge draw. Small compared to what I was used to, but much more active and aggressively welcoming. It was a bit overwhelming, but I had finally settled into a groove and was feeling more like myself when I took a trip down to Atlanta to see Eli and Yves. 

Now… I barely recognized myself. 

Hey, Julian! 

I whirled around, startled to hear a voice so close to me. 

Whoa, sheath your sword, honey. I didn’t mean to startle you, Anne exclaimed with her hands up.

I looked down and realized that I was, in fact, wielding the hand shears like a weapon. Shit, sorry, Miss Anne, I apologized, dropping the shears to my side.

Anne rolled her eyes. How many times do I have to tell you that Miss Anne is Massa’s antebellum princess? Anne will do just fine. 

I chuckled at that because I knew I was supposed to. Anne loved that joke. But I was raised to respect my elders, so the Miss always proceeded her name on instinct.

With her head full of wild, salt-n-pepper grey curls, and arresting grey eyes, I realized Anne was of mixed descent. With a last name like Trudeaux, I assumed she was Creole, though she never claimed to be anything but Black. Her complexion was a smooth and even medium brown with only a few wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth. The wrinkles of a woman who had only seen and tasted joy in the sixty or so years she’d been on this earth.

You are working so hard over here that I thought you’d earned a glass of Lynchburg lemonade, she said, holding out a frosted tumbler of the whiskey spiked drink. 

Thanks, I said, reaching for the glass with more enthusiasm than was merited. This would be a good start to getting good and drunk before the sun went down.

Why don’t you take a break? I’d like to chat with you for a while. And without waiting for my response, she sat on the ground and crossed her legs at the ankle like a college student lounging on the quad between classes. 

Ohhkay, I said, lowering myself to the ground opposite her. I really had no choice but to join her, because walking away would be both awkward and rude now. So what’s up?

I just wanted to check in. You don’t venture up to the main building too often, so I rarely get to see you. How are you doing?

Fuck. Why this question? Why this fucking question on this fucking day? Feelings pushed their way up my throat and tried to spill out of my mouth on a sob. I took a big gulp of the lemonade and used it to force them back down. 

I only ask because I have received no files or descriptions of your new pieces for Open Studios. We’re starting to think about brochures and things and I would love to include your work… 

Uh…yeah. I cleared my throat. I don’t really… I haven’t really done much paintin’ beyond my commissioned work and… I gotta be honest, I don’t think that’ll change in the next six months.

Anne’s mouth turned down at the corners, and her obvious disappointment made my stomach clench. But what could I do? This wasn’t the first time I’d experienced this kind of block, but it was definitely the longest stretch. I’d tried everything I knew, and I still haven’t had a breakthrough. Knowing that I disappointed her didn’t help much either.

I know it’s unfair to put this sort of pressure on you, but many people are probably looking forward to visiting the collective just to see your work and observe your process. 

Anne… you gotta know if I could, I would.

She nodded. What about your erotic portraiture? I know you said you were trying to get away from it—

Yeah, I’ve never created like that without a subject or a theme. A story to tell. That story ain’t in me right now. It’s just not. 

I understand. She reached out and gave my shoulder an encouraging squeeze. Lots of us have been through it before. I want you to know that you can reach out to me anytime to talk or vent or brainstorm. 

Agostina laughed again and I let that light, cheerful sound pull my attention away because I didn’t want to talk or think about my work — or lack thereof, anymore. Anne followed my gaze, and a smile curved the corners of her mouth.

Your studio is next to Agostina’s, isn’t it? she asked. How’s that going?

Uh… we haven’t really been introduced. 

We both watched the subject of our conversation pull her waist-length locs up and twist them into a bun that seemed to want to slip free the moment she pulled her hands away. 

Stunning …

It wasn’t the first time the thought had crossed my mind. Her beauty was the wild kind, almost feral. Like someone had found her in the woods and told her this is how humans live and she complied, but only barely. She was a woman in constant motion; always moving, never quiet — unless we were next to each other in yoga class every morning or when she was at her wheel. But most of the time, she looked like she would love to strip off her clothes and roll in the grass like a colt on a hot summer day. Or like her hair would wend its way around your body if you stood too close. Winding in and over your limbs until you were trapped. Hard to ignore that kind of beauty and I was sure that no one ever ignored Agostina Malone. Everyone seemed to like her. She just felt like… the purest manifestation of joy in person form that I’d ever encountered. Being next to her or in a room with her just felt good. 

She’s strange, I said, finally. She’s always leaving rocks around for me to find, but we haven’t exchanged more than a handful of words. Just… strange. 

Anne chuckled. She comes from a family of conjure women. That might be why she seems strange to you. She’s a powerful empath. Some folks around here think she’s psychic. 

I frowned. Conjure women? You mean witches?

Not witches. Conjure women. They aren’t the same. Don’t they have women like that in Jamaica?

Yeah, but I don’t experiment with that sorta thing. Better to avoid it. 

Oh, but there’s no need to avoid Aggie. She’s a light, Anne said. Maybe she can help you with your creative block. She helped me a few years ago.

Helped you how? I asked, raising a questioning eyebrow.

Oh, it’s not as nefarious as it sounds. There was some tea, some crystals, candles… and some light chanting. Nothing dark or anything. 

Hm, I grunted. Well, I doubt if she’d agree to that. She seems annoyed by me, mostly.

Agostina looked in our direction at the moment and a wary frown crinkled her brown when our eyes met. Something tells me you’re wrong about that. Anne stood up with more fluidity than I would have guessed a woman her age possessed. Why don’t you come over and join us?

I looked at the group of artists gathered around the fire pit. They all seemed so comfortable with each other. So easy. I didn’t have it in me to fake that today. Nah… I better head to my studio and try to get some work done.

Anne nodded. I didn’t mean to put pressure on you, Julian. There’s still plenty of time.

I know, I said with a nod. Thanks, Anne.

I watched her rejoin the group, then finally stood, gathered up the cut branches, stuffed them into a garbage bag, and took them to the dumpster at the back of the property. It was midday and normally I would head out to grab some lunch around this time. But I already ate, so I didn’t even have an empty belly as an excuse to avoid the commissioned piece waiting in my studio. 

Rolling up the garage door of my rented studio, I took a deep breath and reminded myself that I needed this gig. Not for the money, but to keep up the routine. To do the work every day. To be working whenever inspiration showed the fuck up.

It was cool and dark in my studio. The commissioned piece, an anniversary gift for Mr. James Foster from his loving wife, sat in the center of the room on my largest easel. It was mostly rough sketches and underpainting — the base layer of paint I applied to every portrait. Choosing a layer that would build contrast and tonal values in the final product was usually the stage that got me excited about a piece. Blue tones made a painting feel cool, even if I layered warmer colors over it. Yellow tones were great for the deep greens and blues of the ocean or a landscape of brown skin with glowy, yellow ochre tones on the round of a shoulder or the curve of a hip.

I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head because I was looking at the underpainting for my commissioned piece, but I was thinking about the series of paintings I’d done of Yves.

There was only one original painting left from that series. I clenched my teeth and crossed the room to the little storage space at the back of my studio. Her portrait was at the end of a row of pre-stretched canvasses, draped in tarp to protect it from getting scuffed or damaged. I pulled it out, flipped back that tarp, and was immediately transported back to that night in Elijah’s condo with Yves between us. 

My point of view established the perspective of each piece. The one who shared Yves with another man; whose likeness was also off-canvas. The seventy-two hours I spent with them last year were the most intense experiences of my life. It seemed inevitable that it would spill onto the canvas because that was the way I expressed myself. What resulted was some of the rawest and grittiest pieces I’d ever created.

And I haven’t painted a thing since.

I couldn’t explain what made me hold it back from the collection, but I was glad I did. It felt so much more intimate than the others. Shame and guilt always swamped me when I considered the money I’d made from selling them. Life-changing money. But all of that came with knowing I’d exploited Yves and her image. She would never say it, but what I did wasn’t about love. It was spite. The spiteful actions of a man who thought he’d lost the woman he loved. If I’d known that we were going to reconnect, that I would later ask her to be my wife, I would have never sold them. It would always be strange to think of these intimate portraits of the woman I loved hanging on someone’s wall. 

Well, there’s nothing for that now.

Wheeling another easel next to where the commissioned piece sat, I propped it up and studied it. My brushstrokes were much rougher in the older piece. Almost Impasto. I’d used a palette knife for most of it, a technique I used little anymore. But even years later, I could feel the intensity and urgency I felt when I created them. And her eyes… I’d captured them more realistically than I ever had. Propped up next to the underpainting of Mrs. Foster, the passion had been leached from my work. 

How the fuck do I get it back?

Sighing wearily, I grabbed a couple of beers out of the mini-fridge, dragged my camp chair over by the door, and collapsed into it. When I reached into my pocket for keys and the bottle opener attached to them, my fingertips grazed something hard and smooth — the stone Agostina gave me this morning. I pulled it out and inspected it.

What had she called it? Lattice or something? I examined the stone. It was a startling blue with gold, white, and black striations