Three Days in May
by Toby Johnston
Chapter 11
I get to keep him!
I was still walking a little gingerly when we headed back out to the pool to relax before mom and the littles got home. I'd actually had to talk Ash off a ledge while we were in the shower; he'd gotten all panicky and upset when he saw how red and flushed I was back there. I had to repeatedly assure him that I was completely fine, that it didn't hurt, and that it was well worth it. Honestly, I couldn't be happier, and I wouldn't have had our afternoon any other way.
Fortunately, he bounced back quickly. He had his full quarterback swagger back in no time, looking ridiculously good in his red Speedo as he strutted to the edge of the pool and took flight, dropping a massive cannonball into the deep end.
Deciding to show off a little bit, I went for a running, shallow racing dive. I sliced into the water with barely a splash, keeping my body perfectly streamlined as I fired off a sequence of powerful underwater dolphin kicks to propel myself over halfway down the length of the pool before finally breaking the surface and turning over a blazing fast freestyle sprint for a quick lap.
I slowed down as I glided back to where Ash was treading water, his blue eyes locked on me with total awe.
"What's your lap time?" he asked, genuinely curious.
"For the butterfly or the freestyle?" I grinned, wiping the water from my face and slicking my hair back.
"Umm...either," he giggled, shaking his head. He was a football general on the gridiron, but out here, he was clearly way beyond his athletic knowledge base.
"Well, a single lap is a twenty-two. But my 100 Fly is a forty-nine-two, and my 200 IM is a one-fifty. In football terms, Quarterback ? That means I don't lose." I wiggled my eyebrows at him. "Why, you want to race? Loser bottoms?"
Ash snorted, splashing a little water toward me. "Sounds like I'm being completely hustled…"
"Oh, no hustle, Ash," I smirked. "A hustle would be if I told you I was slow. You hit your receiver right on the numbers every single time this morning. But out here? This is Aquaboy 's house . Or pool, anyway."
He gave himself a gentle push off the wall, lazily paddling over until he glided right into my arms. "In that case, maybe you should just hold onto me and make sure I don't drown in the shallow end."
I was perfectly happy to play lifesaver. I wrapped my arms around him, holding him afloat just like I'd done back on the beach after his sweaty hideout in the car. We just drifted together, floating and kissing under the afternoon sun. In nothing but our small Speedos, there was an incredible amount of warm, slick skin-to-skin contact, the cool water swirling around us as we held each other close.
Suddenly, my phone on the table erupted at full volume, aggressively blasting right into the belted, hyper-cheerful chorus of ABBA: Mamma mia, here I go again! My, my, how can I resist you?!
The sudden wail of Swedish pop music shattered the mood instantly. Ash jumped so hard he accidentally dunked both of us, his elbow splashing water straight into my face as we broke apart.
I sputtered, wiping my eyes as the speakers practically vibrated against the plastic table. Mamma mia, does it show again? My, my, just how much I've missed you?!
"That's my mom," I grinned apologetically, letting Ash go. I swam quickly to the side and hopped out, trotting over to grab it before she went to voicemail.
"Yeah, sure," I answered into the receiver, listening to her rapid-fire instructions. "I'll get it going now. We'll have everything ready when you roll in."
Ash was already climbing out of the pool when I clicked off. "Time for my chores?" he grinned.
"Mom's inbound with a carload of hungry, cranky littles," I laughed. "I need to get burgers and dogs going, fries in the oven, and throw a salad together."
I put Ash in charge of the grill, firing off highly specific instructions for the burgers—medium-rare, medium, and Ben's required hockey-puck—and the hot dogs, with mine completely crucified. Once he was deployed outside, I got the oven going for the fries and set to work assembling a massive salad.
That was when I discovered a whole new side benefit to kitchen duty. The window right over the sink provided an unobstructed, front-row view of my new boyfriend tending to the grill in nothing but his little red Speedo. As he flipped the first round of meat, he started doing a hilarious, subtle little butt-wiggle thing to an imaginary beat. Intrigued, I ever so carefully slid the window open, catching the faint, unmistakable sound of him humming Mamma Mia .
He was startled at first, turning about twelve shades of red when I went ahead and queued up the actual song on my phone, blasting it through the screen. But my quarterback quickly recovered. Leaning right into the moment, he went right back to his signature butt wiggle, adding a rhythmic little side step and some playful shoulder action to the mix.
I ended up wasting a ridiculous amount of water down the drain just standing there at the sink, completely hypnotized. My quarterback definitely has rhythm. But then again, I already knew that—I'd thoroughly enjoyed that specific rhythm twice already this afternoon.
We had the patio table all set and were just bringing out the hot food when mom rolled into the driveway. It was perfect timing from the Ash-Gray team. The second she walked through the door, mom quickly pulled me aside into the quiet of the kitchen, leaving Ash to head out back and start serving up the hungry gang. Without a word, she held up her phone, showing me a text from dad.
I gave a low whistle, reading the screen. "I think he'll want to see it, Mom," I said, keeping my voice dropped low. "But let me ask him first so he's not caught off guard in front of the kids."
Mom nodded, heading back outside to relieve Ash and sending him inside to see me. I stepped up and showed him the message, but he didn't even bat an eye. If anything, his expression just hardened into pure focus.
Okay. Game on then.
We went back outside together and took our seats. I caught mom's eye and gave her a sharp nod, the signal to fire up the television. We started eating dinner under the glow of the screen—the local news broadcast cutting abruptly to a flashing red BREAKING NEWS graphic, the dramatic synth music blaring from the patio TV.
"...Following up on that breaking story out of eastern North Carolina," the anchor's voice boomed, sharp and urgent. "In what federal prosecutors are calling 'Operation Rum Runner,' a massive, coordinated strike force took the Outer Banks by storm at dawn today. We turn now to our regional bureau chief reporting live from Kill Devil County."
"Turn it up, Jason," I said, nodding toward the remote.
Jason clicked the volume up, a half-eaten burger hovering under his nose as the screen shifted to a reporter standing in front of a heavily fortified federal checkpoint.
"Dramatic events here today, Bill. In a sweeping, unsealed federal indictment, the Bureau, alongside State Bureau of Investigation agents, launched a series of synchronized raids across the county, arresting over thirty local and state officials—including the long-standing, powerful Sheriff of Kill Devil County, Asher Coleman."
"Holy shit," Ash muttered, his eyes glued to the screen. "Over thirty?"
"...And we're being told, Bill, that those thirty are just the start, with more indictments expected in the coming days…"
The news feed cut to high-definition helicopter footage. The FBI had clearly brought their own media team, hungry for the publicity.
"Sky Seven was on hand to capture the incredible opening moves of the assault," the reporter narrated over the footage. "A massive convoy of nearly twenty blacked-out federal Suburbans hurtled across the Wright Memorial Bridge at breakneck speed. Watch right here—you can see the first two vehicles aggressively peel off, completely boxing in the local sheriff's deputy substation before a single alarm could be raised."
"That's our airfield!" Ben screamed, pointing his French fry at the screen. Immediately violating the house rule about dinner, he dashed off into the house, no doubt in hot pursuit of his toy C-130.
"Simultaneously, tactical helicopters swooped down onto the Manteo airfield, while US Coast Guard cutters effectively locked down the ferry sites, cutting off any potential escape routes from the island itself."
"That's our cutter," Ash whispered, leaning in closer as footage of the bridge filled the screen. Right there on the deck was the exact skipper who'd met us when we'd boarded, pointing authoritatively and doing skipper things. Ash glanced over at me, his eyes wide. "Your dad is in the middle of that ?"
"Just watch," I nodded, though my own chest swelled a little.
The screen cut to the ground-level footage of some of the actual takedown. Heavily armed federal agents in olive-drab tactical gear, ballistic helmets, and full body armor were breaching deep into the sheriff's headquarters.
"Federal agents met minor resistance at the main compound, but the tactical units quickly overwhelmed the corrupt network. In addition to the Sheriff of Kill Devil County, Asher Coleman, other high-profile arrests today included two county judges, three prominent local businessmen, and several county councilmen accused of a decades-long smuggling and racketeering ring."
Then came the perp-walks.
The camera caught a tight shot of a suspect's house. A flash-bang went off on screen, smoke clearing to reveal the FBI entry team leading a handcuffed man out. Leading the stack was an imposing figure. Even under a ballistic helmet, a tactical visor, and carrying a heavy M-4 rifle slung across his chest, there was no mistaking that posture.
Right on cue, Ben came flying back out the patio door, banking his toy airplane hard into the turn just as the rest of the littles erupted in unison.
"DADDY!" they screamed. Ben dropped his plane completely, pointing with his free hand. "Look at his gun! He looks like Call of Duty!"
"Oh, thank God," Mom breathed, a massive smile finally breaking across her face.
"But perhaps the most bizarre image of the day," the news anchor cut back in, the tone shifting slightly, "was the recovery of Sheriff Coleman's infamous custom-painted Ghost SUV. Allegedly used to transport illicit drugs, federal agents found the vehicle half-submerged down at the beach—perhaps in an attempt to destroy evidence, who knows."
The video cut to a heavy-duty flatbed tow truck hauling a dripping, mud-caked black Chevy Tahoe up onto the deck. The truck was waterlogged, thick strands of seaweed hanging from the side mirrors.
A field agent walked up to the driver's side, grabbed the handle, and yanked the door open. A literal tidal wave of brackish sound-water exploded out of the cabin, violently rushing over the flatbed—carrying with it a dozen very live, very confused, flapping target fish and a couple of crabs that hit the asphalt below.
Ash and I instantly erupted into laughter.
"Oh my God," Ash snorted, choking on his soda. "I guess dad wasn't able to get his car off the beach. That high tide's a bitch."
"Where's a U-boat commander when you need one?" I laughed, shaking my head.
I sure wasn't going to tell anyone sitting at this table that Ash had personally pulled the fuses right before we headed for the Zodiac extraction, leaving the Sheriff dead in the water. I'd let someone else figure out that mystery.
We flipped through the different stations, catching some repeats and a few pieces of new footage from the afternoon's takedown. Before long, the broadcast channels started shifting away from the action clips and over to the legal analysts. While next to none of the actual evidence had been released to the public yet, that didn't slow down the talking heads one bit.
Both Ash and I leaned forward, listening closely as they mapped out the expected progression of the case through the federal court system—the upcoming arraignments, preliminary hearings, the inevitable battlefield of motions to exclude evidence, the trials themselves, and finally, the sentencing. And that was just round one; after that, there would be years of appeals.
Sensing the sheer weight of it all settling over him, I reached under the table, grabbing Ash's hand and squeezing it tight. He caught his breath for a split second, then squeezed right back, his knuckles locking into mine.
The pundits on the screen might not have known the specifics yet, but they definitely knew the timelines. Ash and I, on the other hand, knew a wealth of the details. But the most important detail of all wasn't something the news outlets were even aware of to broadcast—my boyfriend was the only person who could tie it all together.
The FBI and the U.S. Attorney for the Eastern District of North Carolina were going to need my quarterback's testimony for a very long time to come. He wasn't going anywhere. We were in this together.
"Well," Mom said with a knowing smile, "your father is certainly going to have some stories to tell when he gets home. And Ash, sweetie? It looks like you're going to be our guest for quite a while."
I smiled, letting my fingers slip out of Ash's hand. Instead, I slid my arm up and around his shoulder, pulling his athletic frame tightly under my wing so he was tucked right against my side.
I looked over at mom, winking. "So, Mom…what you're saying is, I get to keep him ?"
Ash buried his face against my neck to hide his sudden, bright red blush, but he didn't try to pull away. Not even a little.
"Wait!" Ben piped up, his half-eaten burger completely forgotten as his eyes went wide with sudden, urgent realization. "If Ash is staying here, does that mean we get to keep Willie? For safekeeping?!"
Ash laughed against my shoulder, the tension completely leaving his body as he looked up at my little brother. "Yeah, buddy. Willie comes with the quarterback package."
" Yes !" Ben pumped his fist in the air, immediately making a mental transformation into a full-time dog trainer.
I just squeezed Ash closer, resting my chin on top of his head as the news broadcast faded into the background. Let the courts handle the rest of the world. Right here, on this patio, our team was set.
Voting
This story is part of the 2026 story challenge "Inspired by a Picture: Can We Keep Him". The other stories may be found at the challenge home page. Please read them, too. The voting period of 24 July 2026 to 14 August 2026 is when the voting is open. This story may be rated, below, against a set of criteria, and may be rated against other stories on the challenge home page.
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