#martin loader

-Losing your first love leaves a wound that never really heals, and maybe you choose your second husband with a bit more practicality. He is going places. Or so he says. He's a big talker, you come to find out, and when things don't really pan out over the years the way he thought they would he starts to drink too much, and blames you.

-When Ricky picks you up at the train station that fateful day in 1951, the remnants of your ex-husband's last parting gift shade your left eye. Makeup only goes so far, and you're extra embarrassed when he divulges that your sister Olga is throwing a surprise party to herald your return home. "I hate men," you snarl, checking yourself in the mirror, winning raised eyebrows from the young member of the condemned demographic beside you.

-But then, you don't see him that way. Not yet. Not when you remember sneaking him extra cookies from the counter when he barely came up to your elbow. How old was he the last time you saw him? 6? 7? Maybe he calls you aunt y/n, but you're not actually related by blood. He's your sister's husband's brother's boy. Little Ricky. Sweet but mischievous, as you recall. A little too smart for his own good, but then people said that about you too.

Maybe they'd been right though.

-When you arrive at Olga's Ricky is all too glad to be rid of you. He's not too sure what to think about you, leaning towards the popular familial opinion that you are pure trouble. In fact, he's never met a woman like you. You are nothing like the sweet young southern girls he knows from school, flirtatious yet demure. You speak your mind. You have strong opinions. And even if you are pushing thirty, you're still good-looking enough that the men at the party flock to you, randy old goats who would condemn you in public but are still mighty intrigued by your reputation as a double divorcée—much to your chagrin.

-Ah well. Not his problem. Or so he thinks, until you outright lie when old Emery LeBlanc tries to wrangle you into a dinner invitation. "So sorry but I can't, Ricky here is taking me to a movie."

He is?

-To make matters worse, he actually shows up for said movie the next night—but you don't. Annoyed to the soles of his shoes, he rolls his eyes and goes to see the damn thing anyway, tearing up your ticket. He tells himself he wasn't looking forward to seeing you, just being nice to an old lady. He's 21, after all, and you've got to be at least what? 30? Practically a dried up old maid… That's what society has told him, at any rate, but deep down, his caveman brain thinks you're still a perfectly nubile woman.

-You cross paths later at a family dinner, all dolled up on the arm of an accountant who has money but is dull as a box of rocks. See, you've decided this round you're marrying for money. You're done with being poor, and if you have to put up with another ridiculous creature of a man you're going to be compensated for it.

-It's one of the nicest restaurants in New Orleans with a menu full of delicious creole dishes. Yet when your beau tries to order the plain white sole for you, well…Ricky feels sorry for you. And then you blow his mind, when you insouciantly order the lobster and scarf down every succulent little bit of it with butter, cracking the claws with an almost violent glee. He doesn't know why its so mesmerizing to watch you enjoying yourself—while horrifying your date all the while. You've got moxie, and for some reason watching you out the corner of his eye makes young Richard tingle.

-Your date excuses himself from the table, and never really comes back, mingling around the room with other acquaintances, cleary intimidated by you. Maybe it was the wine with dinner, or maybe the moment under the table when he retrieved your napkin and got an eyeful of your shapely gams—but he feels bold enough to ask you to dance.

-You agree on a lark, thinking young Ricky is being cute. But when his hand slides just a little too low down the small of your back you jump in his arms. "Watch that hand, kid," you scold.

"I'm not a kid anymore," he insists, and maybe that's the moment that you really notice how tall he's grown, and how the arms around you could hold you there whether you like it or not. There's a gleam in his onyx dark eyes that makes you sigh—inwardly.

"Alright, fine, if you're such a man then remember your manners with a lady," you retort, winning a smirk that you should twist his ear for…but it makes something tingle low in your belly. His hand returns to the safer territory of the small of your back—but he holds you a little too close, and you wonder if this is going to turn into a problem for you.

-The answer to that is yes, yes it is. He has the nerve to come visit you one day when Olga is out and you're all alone in the big Garden District mansion. He brings you flowers—and has the audacity to plant a saucy kiss right on your lips. At first you're too shocked to move—but then you slap him.

"I don't know what you've heard about me, but that is not how you treat a lady, Ricky."

"It's Richard. Or Rick," he has the nerve to volley back, those lovely dark eyes sparkling.

"Okay, Richard. You think I let just anyone buy a kiss with drugstore carnations?"

"I thought you liked me."

"Sure I do. I'm your aunt."

"We're not related." He sidles closer again, the confident little—alright, he's a tall shit—and you find yourself backed into the corner of the kitchen counters.

"It would be a scandal and you know it."

"I thought you liked scandals?"

"Ricky…"

"Richard."

"Whatever. I am looking for husband. Preferably a rich old one, with a heart condition."

"Look away. Doesn't mean we can't have a little fun."

You look him up and down with a frown, trying to take him down a peg. But unfortunately, he's handsome, and broad shouldered, and towers over you by a head and a half and your idiotic libido is whispering that a little fun wouldn't hurt anyone.

"I doubt you even know what to do with a woman like me," you try to head him off.

"I know plenty," he insists with that smirk, daring to look you over in exactly the same way, and goddammit if it doesn't make you ache inside. "I lost my cherry five years ago," he proudly informs you with all the confidence of an alley cat—it makes you think he's definitely still a virgin, or at least not half as experienced as he claims.

"Alright, don Juan," you challenge him. "You want to play with the big boys? The least you can do is take me on a date."

"Let's have a picnic tomorrow," he offers up. "I'll take you to the beach."

That actually…sounds nice. "You're on. Spend a day with me, kid, I bet you won't even like me by the end of it."

He narrows his eyes at your challenge, sidling even closer. The truth is, since the restaurant he can't stop thinking about you. You're like a song he can't get out of his head. It's true, you're not always nice. But you might be one of the most interesting women he's ever met. You're utterly unpredictable, harsh as bleach one minute and sweet as sugar the next.

And it doesn't help that every time you run your mouth, he wants to shut you up by kissing you.

"I'll see you tomorrow, sweetheart. Wear something pretty." He stoops to kiss you, but you turn your head at the last minute, taking it on the cheek.

He narrows his eyes at you, but accepts his defeat for now, sauntering out with a smug smile. You're not sure if you've signed up for an afternoon outing with a suitor, or an all out fencing match.

-It's a beautiful day at the beach, blue skies and cotton puff clouds. There's not a soul around on this weekday on the Gulf, you feel like you own the place. Richard sneaks a few peeks while you change, and he has hearts in his eyes when he sees you in your cute onepiece swimsuit, polkadots with a little bow on the bodice. He wants to grab you up and kiss you all over, but he bides his time, not keen on getting slapped again.

In fact, he knows he better feed you if he has a prayer of winning you over. He gets his fishing gear and wades in knee deep, and catches the two of you lunch fresh from the sea. He sets the unlucky fishy up on a spit to roast, and the two of you lounge together on a blanket in the shade of an umbrella.

-Maybe because you don't take this terribly seriously you feel free to be absolutely honest with him. You tell him all about your life in New York, the characters you knew and the things you've seen. You're a painter too, and you've spent some time around the art scene with husbands 1 and 2. Sadly you've never been taken seriously on your own though—you've always been viewed as a curious accessory to your men, even though you were as good as your once tutor at the end, and certainly more talented than #2. You're smart and funny, in your acidic little way, pulling no punches, and Richard is surprised that he likes to listen to you talk.

He admits something he hasn't told anyone in the family to you—that maybe he's going to law school, but what he really wants is to go to Paris and become a writer.

But you think he'll make a great lawyer someday. He certainly loves to argue just for the sake of it, and is damnably good at playing the Devil's advocate if for anything just to needle you. It's exhilarating and exhausting and by the time the two of you are laid out on the blanket in the sand waiting for the fish to cook, you could take a nap. You even have the harebrained idea it might even be nice to try that out in his arms, and it's most unhelpful when he scoots closer to you, his long body stretched out beside yours, a smile curling the corner of his shapely mouth like he knows just what you're thinking.

"Maybe I'll write a book about you," he teases, brushing your hair behind your ear. "The Adventures of My Aunt Y/n."

"You'd better not," you warn him.

"Or what?" he challenges, pinching your chin gently with his thumb. This little turd. Why is he so delightful?

"You haven't seen me mad yet, young man. You might not like it." The fire in your eyes sends a thrill down his spine.

"Hmm. Sounds…terrifying." Of course he says this while looking at your mouth.

"Don't patronize me."

"I wouldn't dare."

"You just think you're the slickest—"

You don't know what you were going to call him, because he presses his mouth to yours, and for a long thirty seconds you are absolutely lost. It doesn't help either when he rolls over on top of you, that lean body pressing you down into the soft sand. He smirks down at you, though there's a tenderness in his eyes as he strokes your hair back that melts your heart a little too much.

“Honestly I always thought you were kind of mysterious. Everyone acts scandalized because they have to, but deep down…I think they’re jealous too.”

“I just…didn’t want to be their pawn. I went my own way. Maybe I got a little lost somewhere though.”

"You think so?"

“It’s not all its cracked up to be, you know. La vie bohème.”

"No? It sounds like a lovers' paradise to me."

"It is for a little while. But then…it wears on you. The uncertainty of it all. You've never even left home, you can't understand."

You try to sit up, but he pulls you back down. "I understand, y/n. I'm not stupid."

"No, but you're young. God, you're young. What are we even doing here? Richard…" When you try to get up again he pins you this time, kissing you with a passion that curls your toes and lights your skin on fire, your nails digging into his shoulders, your leg curled over his hip. The hard bulge that presses into your center is surprisingly impressive, and you can't stop from rolling your hips against his.

He knows you intend to find a man with money who can take care of you—but in that moment with you in his arms he finds the thought of another man touching you drives him crazy. He wants you to be his.

He doesn't even know what he's babbling about, as he kisses down your neck, the curve of your collarbone, the sweet sweet swell of your breast. "I could take care of you, y/n," he sighs against your skin, his big hand running up your thigh. "Give me a chance."

This was not the way you expected this conversation, or this date, to go. "Ricky…"

When he doesn't listen to you, very intent on getting his teeth in the bodice of your suit to pull it down, you grab a handful of his heartbreakingly soft dark hair, turning his face up to yours. "We're just having fun, remember? Don't get ahead of yourself."

The earnest way he looks at you makes your heart sink like a stone. Gone is the cocky young man who's so sure he holds the whole world in the palm of his hand. The look in his eyes is pure puppy love. It's so endearing, and you know it has to stop, even if it feels so good to see that adoration in a man's eyes again. You could bask in it like sunshine.

Yet the cynical side of you wonders how much he's confused lust with the nobler emotions. They're hard to pull apart, when it's all so new. Maybe you're both just idiots.

Finally he speaks, "You think you're so hardened by the world, y/n, but I see you. I think deep down, you're a romantic too." Pinned by his sincere gaze, you struggle for a decent breath, your chest heaving like some two-bit pulp fiction cover girl.

The thunk of the fish falling off the spit into the fire saves you.

"Ah, shoot!" He scrambles up to save your lunch, and in that moment he's a boy again, adorable and awkward. He's a confusing mix of youthful innocence and brazen masculinity. He hasn't quite found his feet yet. When he does…he will be something to be reckoned with.

With a sadness in your heart, you're sure you'll be long gone by then. If you go through with this, someone else would reap the rewards of the lessons you could teach him. You don't even know her name yet, but you know she's a lucky little bitch.