Hey, Cowboy
by SalientLane
Chapter 1
Dad had shown me once what happened when you caught a scorpion and put it in a jar with a cricket. I shook the memory away. - Jonas Hartley
Roscoe knew it was Jonas before the knock even sounded on his bedroom window. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across his room, and through the glass he caught the silhouette of his best friend perched precariously on the thick branch of the old Arizona ash. This wasn't a front door kind of day, which meant Jonas's dad was on another tear. Roscoe slid the window open, feeling the blast of July heat rush in as Jonas slipped through the gap with practiced ease. Their eyes met, and Roscoe saw everything he needed to know in that brief exchange.
"Hey, Cowboy," Roscoe said, helping Jonas down from the windowsill.
Jonas landed with a soft thud on the carpet, his thin frame folding like a pocketknife. "Hey," he echoed, but the usual spark in his voice was missing. He wore the same faded black-now-gray "Song Remains the Same" Led Zeppelin t-shirt he'd had on at school yesterday, and his jeans had a fresh tear at the knee.
"Dad's been drinking since noon," Jonas said, flopping onto Roscoe's bed. He said it casually, like he was commenting on the weather, but his fingers kept twitching against his thigh. "Figure I'd give him some space."
Roscoe nodded, knowing that "giving space" meant avoiding a collision. He'd never set foot in Jonas's house—nobody did when Mr. Hartley was home—but he'd heard the shouting through open windows, seen the empty bottles lined up by the trash can on collection day.
"Mom's making spaghetti," Roscoe said. "Dad just got back from the hardware store. He's putting together that bookshelf they bought last weekend."
It was an invitation that didn't need to be stated. Jonas's shoulders relaxed a fraction.
"Your mom makes the best spaghetti in Arizona," Jonas said, and some of that familiar light returned to his eyes. "Better than that fancy Italian place they opened at the mall."
Roscoe smiled. Jonas had never eaten at the Italian place at the mall. Neither of them had. But it was the kind of thing they said to each other—creating a world of experiences they hadn't had, shared jokes that no one else understood.
"Boys?" Roscoe's mother called from the kitchen. Her voice carried up the short flight of stairs, warm and solid. "Dinner in fifteen!"
"Coming, Mom!" Roscoe shouted back. Then, quieter, to Jonas: "She already set a place for you."
It wasn't a surprise. Jonas had been coming around for dinner almost every night that summer. Sometimes he came through the front door, greeted Roscoe's parents with his charming smile and quick wit. Other days, like today, he appeared at Roscoe's window like a stray cat, too wary to use the main entrance.
"You want to borrow a clean shirt?" Roscoe asked, already moving toward his dresser.
Jonas glanced down at himself and shrugged. "Yeah, I guess. Don't want your mom thinking I'm a total slob."
Roscoe pulled out a blue t-shirt with a faded Phoenix Suns logo and tossed it to Jonas, who caught it one-handed. Jonas turned his back to change—a sharp, defensive habit he'd suddenly picked up that summer. Roscoe turned away too, busying himself with shutting the window. It was a new, unspoken boundary that Jonas had quietly put up between them, and though it felt strange after a lifetime of shirtless summers and even shared baths when they were little, Roscoe extended him the courtesy without questioning it.
By the time they clattered down the stairs, Jonas looked almost normal—hair finger-combed into place, borrowed shirt hanging a little loose on his smaller frame. Mrs. Benjamin looked up from where she was setting a bowl of garlic bread on the table and smiled.
"Jonas! I thought I heard an extra set of feet up there. How's your summer reading coming along?"
"It's coming, Mrs. B," Jonas said, sliding into his usual chair at the table—the one that might as well have had his name carved into it. "Almost halfway through The Old Man and the Sea ."
"Which means he's read the first page about fifty times," Roscoe added, ducking the playful swat Jonas aimed at his shoulder.
Mr. Benjamin emerged from the garage, wiping his hands on a rag. He was a bigger, older version of Roscoe—same broad shoulders, same serious eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled.
"Jonas, good to see you. You staying the night?"
It wasn't really a question. Jonas stayed over so often that Roscoe's parents had bought him his own toothbrush, which lived permanently in their bathroom.
"If that's okay, sir," Jonas said, the politeness automatic.
"Always okay," Mrs. Benjamin said, ladling spaghetti onto plates. "I was thinking of making pancakes tomorrow morning."
Dinner with the Benjamins was nothing like meals at Jonas's house—at least, not from what little Jonas had shared with Roscoe. Here, there was talking and laughing. Mr. Benjamin asked about their summer jobs mowing lawns for the neighbors. Mrs. Benjamin told a funny story about something that happened teaching summer school. Nobody yelled or slammed doors or went silent for days.
After dinner, they helped clear the table, then escaped to the living room to watch TV. "Charlie's Angels" was on, and they sprawled across opposite ends of the couch, their legs tangled in the middle, arguing good-naturedly about which Angel was the coolest.
"Farrah Fawcett-Majors, no contest," Jonas insisted.
"You're just saying that because of the hair," Roscoe countered.
"Like you don't have a thing for Jaclyn Smith."
"Shut up," Roscoe said, but he was smiling.
By the time the 10 o'clock news came on, Mr. Benjamin was snoring lightly in his armchair. Mrs. Benjamin nudged him awake, and the adults headed off to bed with a reminder to the boys not to stay up too late.
Roscoe gestured toward the stairs, thinking of his room. They'd been sharing his room since they were kids. In the beginning, Jonas used a sleeping bag on the floor, but in no time, they were sharing Roscoe's double bed. It had never seemed weird until this past year, when something shifted between them—nothing they talked about, just a new awareness that Roscoe couldn't quite name.
"Ready for bed?" Roscoe asked.
"Almost," Jonas said, flipping through a car magazine he'd found under the living room coffee table. "But let's stay up a while. I'm not tired yet."
Roscoe understood what Jonas wasn't saying. He was waiting for his father to pass out, so there'd be no chance of the man coming looking for him in a drunken rage. So they stayed on the couch and watched a late rerun of Gunsmoke, making fun of how the actors all sounded like they were from New York trying to play cowboys. Eventually, when it was past midnight and Jonas's eyes kept sliding shut despite his efforts to stay awake, Roscoe nudged him. "Come on, Cowboy. Time to hit the hay."
Jonas blinked against the sleep, tossing the magazine aside as they finally headed to bed.
They shuffled upstairs, taking turns in the bathroom. Roscoe lent Jonas a pair of gym shorts to sleep in, as he had countless times before. The routine was familiar: Jonas brushing his teeth with his red toothbrush, Roscoe setting his alarm clock for the morning, both of them arguing over who got which pillow.
The room was dark except for the stripe of moonlight coming through the blinds when Roscoe noticed something different. Jonas usually slept in a t-shirt, even on the hottest summer nights. But tonight, he'd taken it off, something he rarely did. In the dim light, Roscoe saw why.
Across Jonas's back, from his shoulder blades to just above the waistband of the borrowed shorts, were marks—some faded to dull red lines, others fresher, raised welts that looked painful to the touch. They crossed his skin in neat, deliberate patterns, too even to be accidental.
Roscoe felt something cold settle in his stomach. He'd suspected—of course he had—but seeing it was different. Real.
"Jonas," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "What happened to your back?"
Jonas tensed, then tried to pull the sheet up over himself. "Nothing. Scraped it climbing through a barbed wire fence out in the wash."
It was such an obvious lie that Roscoe didn't bother addressing it. Instead, he reached out slowly and touched one of the marks with a gentle fingertip. Jonas flinched but didn't pull away.
"Did he do this?" Roscoe asked, though he already knew the answer.
For a long moment, Jonas said nothing. The room was silent except for the distant hum of the refrigerator downstairs and the soft whir of the ceiling fan above them. When Jonas finally spoke, his voice was tight, controlled.
"It's not a big deal. He gets mad sometimes, that's all."
"That's not 'getting mad,' Jonas. That's—" Roscoe struggled to find the right words. "That's messed up."
Jonas turned to face him, his expression hidden in the shadows. "You think I don't know that? But what am I supposed to do? Run away? Live in a boxcar like those kids in that book?"
"You could tell someone. My parents. A teacher. The cops."
Jonas let out a bitter laugh that sounded wrong coming from him. "Yeah, and then what? They take me away, put me in some home with a bunch of other screwed-up kids? And I never see you again." He shook his head. "No thanks. I'll stick with the devil I know."
Roscoe sat up, turning on the small lamp beside his bed. The sudden light made Jonas wince, but now Roscoe could see the marks clearly—some old, some new, crisscrossing Jonas's skin like a map of pain.
"How long has this been going on?" Roscoe asked, keeping his voice low so his parents wouldn't hear.
Jonas shrugged, looking away. "I don't know. Since before Mom left, I guess. So, three years? It's worse when he's been drinking."
"Which is all the time," Roscoe said.
"Not all the time. Sometimes he passes out before he gets around to it."
Roscoe felt a surge of anger so strong it made his hands shake. He'd never considered himself a violent person, but in that moment, he understood how someone could hurt another human being on purpose.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked.
Jonas finally met his eyes. "Because you'd look at me exactly the way you're looking at me now."
"How am I looking at you?"
"Like I'm some pathetic, broken thing you need to fix." Jonas's voice cracked on the last word, betraying the emotion he was trying so hard to hide.
Roscoe shook his head. "That's not what I'm thinking."
"No? Then what are you thinking, Ross?"
Roscoe rarely heard Jonas use that nickname—it was reserved for moments of rare sincerity between them. He took a breath, trying to sort through the tangle of feelings in his chest.
"I'm thinking that your dad is a monster," he said finally. "And I'm thinking that you're the strongest person I know, to deal with this and still be... you." He gestured at Jonas—at his sharp eyes and defiant chin and the crooked half-smile that appeared even now. "But mostly I'm thinking that you don't have to handle it alone anymore."
Something shifted in Jonas's expression, a crack in the armor he wore so carefully. His eyes grew bright, and he looked away quickly, blinking hard.
"It's just the switch, usually," Jonas said, his voice low and flat. "The one from the mesquite tree in the backyard. Sometimes the belt. Once he used the cord from the iron when he couldn't find anything else." He spoke mechanically, like he was reading a grocery list. "He's careful not to leave marks where people can see. That's why it's always my back, or—" He stopped, swallowed hard. "Anyway. It could be worse. Some kids have it worse."
"That doesn't make it okay," Roscoe said, his throat tight.
"No," Jonas agreed. "It doesn't."
Roscoe hesitated, then gently placed his palm against Jonas's back, covering some of the marks as if he could erase them. Jonas tensed at first, then gradually relaxed under the touch.
"Does it hurt?" Roscoe asked.
"Not so much anymore. The fresh ones sting in the shower, but I'm used to it."
The casual way Jonas said it—I'm used to it—made Roscoe's chest ache. Nobody should be used to something like that, especially not Jonas with his quick wit and fierce loyalty and the way he could make Roscoe laugh harder than anyone else.
"You know you can always come here," Roscoe said. "Any time. Day or night. Window or door. My parents won't mind."
"I know," Jonas said quietly. "Why do you think I'm here so much?"
They fell silent, Roscoe's hand still resting lightly on Jonas's back. There was something intimate about the moment that made Roscoe's heart beat faster, but he didn't move away. Instead, he found himself tracing one of the older, faded marks with his thumb.
"We could run away," Roscoe suggested, only half-joking. "Head out West. Further west, I mean. California. We could get jobs on a ranch or something."
Jonas smiled a real smile this time. "Yeah? You and me against the world, Cowboy?"
"Why not?"
"We're just kids."
"We could do it. I've got ninety bucks saved up from mowing lawns."
For a moment, Jonas looked like he was actually considering it. Then he sighed. "No. I'm not dropping out and working at some gas station my whole life."
It was the answer Roscoe had expected. For all his tough talk, Jonas was smart—scary smart sometimes. He got straight As without seeming to try, while Roscoe had to work for every B.
"Fine," Roscoe said. "But the offer stands."
They lapsed into silence again, more comfortable this time. Roscoe turned the lamp off, and they settled back against the pillows, closer than they had been before. In the darkness, Jonas's voice came as barely more than a whisper.
"Thanks," he said. "For not making a big thing out of it."
"It is a big thing," Roscoe countered. "But I get it."
"Yeah," Jonas said. "You always do."
Roscoe felt Jonas's hand find his under the covers, their fingers brushing, then locking together. It was something they'd never done before, but it felt right—a wordless promise between them.
As Jonas's breathing deepened into sleep, Roscoe stared up at the ceiling, still holding his friend's hand. He made a silent vow in the darkness: he would protect Jonas, whatever it took. From Mr. Hartley, from anyone who tried to hurt him. There was a fierceness to the thought that surprised him, a depth of feeling that went beyond friendship.
Roscoe didn't have a word for what he felt for Jonas—or maybe he did, but wasn't ready to use it yet. All he knew for sure was that the boy sleeping beside him, with his sharp edges and hidden wounds, had become the most important person in his world.
And Roscoe Benjamin wasn't going to let anyone hurt him ever again.
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