Epic Summer To Do List B4 I Turn Eighteen:
#1- Get myself an effing tattoo from The Canvas.

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It's dark, I've got my fake ID card in the pocket of my black skinny jeans and I'm going to get myself a freaking tattoo.

The air conditioner is off, the windows are down and slightly chilly night air nips at my skin as I take in a deep breath, basking in the glow of the bright street lights. This is my first time coming to this part of town without the sun to help guide my steps and it seems to me that I've been missing a lot. This part of Downtown L.A. is very much alive when the sun goes down; buzzing with music, drunken shouts and business transactions. And unfortunately—or maybe, fortunately—this is my kind of scene; the kind where I can function without having any worries of being anchored down to my obligations.

I square my shoulders to prepare myself as I drive towards my destination; The Canvas. It's a relatively small tattoo parlor which is very popular around this part of town because of its reputation for creating amazing tattoos. The walls look like they've been brushed with gold under the moonlight and the sign board displaying its name is pitch black. It's a short building with a dark roof which I could touch if someone lifts me up high enough. It's sandwiched tight between two other buildings that I'm very familiar with; a barber's shop and a slightly rundown pizzeria. Unlike its neighbors, the tattoo parlor is still open for business without fear of shutting down.

I park and make it to the door without any trouble. There's a sign indicating it's open and I can't see anyone standing around. It could mean business is slow, which is just fine with me—more than fine, actually. I've never really been the patient type.

"Okay Scarlett," I say out loud, giving myself an impromptu pep talk. "You can do this. You can so get a tattoo today. Your ID looks authentic and you're even wearing lipstick."

My heart is pounding and I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because I made this bucket list while I was extremely drunk and ready to fulfill my greatest desires. But right now, I'm sober and I don't even know why my drunk self wanted a tattoo in the first place. Standing right in front of this parlor, I don't even know what kind of tattoo I fucking want.

But whatever. You only live once and shit, I guess.

Steeling my spine, I shove most of my weight against the door. It moves, creating a bit of space and I quickly slither in before I can lose my courage or worse, before it can slam shut in my face.

The place is illuminated with bright fluorescent lights and smells oddly of ink and something similar to cologne. The floors are tiled and the walls are basically graffiti; there is virtually no color scheme. Different paintings of paintings having paintings in them; it's a never ending cycle of a concept I can't see or understand. There's a counter at the deeper end of the parlor with nothing but big looking books stacked on it and a door, probably leading to the bathroom, at the back of the counter. Of course, there's a chair with a table full of tattoo making stuff—needles, bottles of ink, a tattoo machine—right beside it along with a large mirror hanging in front of the chair. There's also a black couch in the corner, probably for customers to wait and the general atmosphere is cool because of the working air conditioning system.

I walk to the counter, still looking around the place. It's clean and it has an artsy vibe to it. It's a vibe I'm finding very comfortable. I like it—and that's saying a lot because I don't like a lot of things.

"Hello?" I call loudly. My voice sounds huskier than usual with nerves. I frown and clear my throat. "Is anyone here? You've got a customer?"

I wait for a moment. Rumor says that the place is owned by a guy in his early twenties but I can't see anyone in sight. I tap my foot against the floor and whistle a tune to myself. Fucking hell, does the owner know I could easily steal something and walk away without any hassle?

The door behind the counter opens and out steps a tall guy with tattoos for sleeves. I cringe. I didn't hear the flush of a toilet. Doesn't he know basic restroom etiquette? He really does look to be in his twenties so he should know it's better to always flush after using the toilet—

"Get out," he snaps.

I pause with my thoughts and blink. I look away from him to look at the unlucky person behind me that he's talking to. Empty space stares back at me. I turn to face him again. He's glares right back at me with startling, icy blue eyes.

...Is this jacked up asshole really talking to me?

"You must be mistaken," I fake a laugh to ease the sudden tension in the room. "I'm a customer. The sign on your door says that this place is open. So—"

"I'm not making a mistake," he cuts me off with a roll of his eyes. "I'm telling you, to get the fuck out of my tattoo parlor." He cranes his neck to look at a spot behind me. "And someone should be behind you. Like your nanny or your high uncle," he adds.

"Excuse you," I'm a little angry now. Who the hell does he think he is? "Why the fuck would I need a high uncle or a nanny?"

"Because you're a minor and I don't patronize minors," he moves to the side and points to a sign on the door he emerged out of. YOU MUST BE 18 (WITH A PERMIT) AND ABOVE TO GET A TATTOO, is written in impeccable block letters.

...How didn't I notice that?

"I'm twenty, you ass," I fake a confused frown and dig into my pocket for my ID card. "I just look really young for my age."

I thrust the card out towards him and he takes it in a flourish. He glances at the card and shakes his head.

"Okay, Barbara Hart," he says the name like it's a joke, "I would love to attend to you but not now. Please come along with your real ID card next time."

I keep my act up. I have a feeling that if I take my lying serious, I could win an Oscar one day. "Look, whatever your name is, I'm just here for a tattoo. My car broke down, my boyfriend broke up with me because 'he needs space' and I'm really not in the mood for these games. I want a tattoo and I want it now."

He rolls his eyes again. He also eyes me like he's sizing me up. "Look. I'm not going to give you a tattoo. I know a...seventeen year old girl when I see one."

How the hell—? I frown slowly and take a cautious step back. He smirks like he knows I've been caught.

Do I know him from somewhere? "Do I know you?"

"For my sake, hopefully not," he answers with a slight shrug. Under different circumstances, I'd appreciate his wit, attitude and general countenance. Today, though? I'm not in the mood to deal with some random guy with a tongue sharper than the pencils I use to draw maps in Geography class.

"I'm not seventeen," I scowl for emphasis. "I—"

"Saffron or whatever your name is, stop," he cuts me off again and I ignore the way my face suddenly feels hot. "I have audio cameras out front."

I raise an eyebrow. 'It's Barbara," I huff. "And what do you mean you have audio cameras out front?"

"It means, from the comfort of my surveillance room," he jerks his head to the door with the age guidelines sign, "I heard your little pep talk before you walked in."

...Well. This isn't awkward at all.

"Your ID card is good—I'll give you that," he laughs and throws the aforementioned card towards me. It smacks me in the chest and drops to the floor. He continues talking without a pause. "But you're a minor. I don't patronize minors."

"Of all the assholes I've met in this world..." I frown, crouch down to pick my card and quickly get up. "So you knew I was in the store before I started calling out for you?"

"I thought you were literate," he shrugs, pointing to the sign behind him again like it's a good enough excuse.

I'm really tempted to throw something at him but I can't. Not yet, at least. I still need to get a tattoo. My drunk self needs it. And it needs it from this parlor. "Look, you don't understand. I need to get a tattoo, preferably tonight."

"You say it like I care," he shrugs again. "Look, kid. Just get out of here. Don't you have a curfew?"

I narrow my eyes at him. "No. I don't," I say through clenched teeth, "Look, asshole—"

"—My name isn't asshole—"

"I have this bucket list," I glare at him for cutting me off again and he returns the look. I ignore it and continue with my monologue. "I have this bucket list...that I have to complete before I turn eighteen."

"Oh God," he rolls his eyes in a very dramatic fashion. "Get out of my parlor. I don't care, just leave."

I ignore his rude plea. "And I'm turning eighteen in about eight weeks, okay? So can't you just give me a tattoo now? Like an early birthday gift; just that, of course, I'm paying for it."

"No," he says. His tone doesn't give way for me to argue.

I'm feeling a little desperate now. "Is it because I'm begging? You know, there are tons of other tattoo parlors around here!"

"Then go to those places," he rolls his eyes again. "Try not to talk out loud about having an 'authentic looking ID card' and they might actually believe you're just a starving twenty year old."

His words are harsh and insensitive. I hug my jacket around my body even tighter and I can't help but gulp. "You really are an asshole."

"I guess I am," he nods and I watch as he turns around to walk away, back into the 'surveillance room' he emerged out of earlier. "Better luck somewhere else. Or come over here with a permit when you're finally eighteen."

"So you're just going to leave a seventeen year old girl out here? Did you stop to wonder how I'm going to get home? Or how much I risked tonight just so I can get a fucking tattoo from you?"

He pauses, hand on the doorknob but he doesn't make a move to turn it and walk inside.

Oh my fuck, yes! I've finally gotten to him. I continue with my little pity party speech. "Please don't let this be in vain on my part."

He doesn't turn to face me. "Must you get a tattoo from my parlor?"

"Yes. I specified on the list," I sigh. "Don't know why. But you have a reputation for making amazing tattoos..."

There's silence for a moment. My heart beats slightly harder in my chest. I bite my lip in anticipation.

He finally breaks the silence. "Do I look like I'm in the mood for a law suit?"

...And I've lost him again. "Dude—"

"Have a nice night," he says, sending me a glare over his shoulder. His blue eyes practically glint under the bright fluorescent lights. "And shut the door behind you."

I watch as he opens the door and slams it shut behind him. The thud resonates round the room and the sound practically echoes in my ears.

I wait for a moment. I mean, there's no way he'll make me leave with good conscience. It isn't possible. He's just trying to pull my combat boots or something.

Six minutes pass by slowly. I stare at the screen of my phone and watch as it becomes seven minutes.

Holy shit take chocolate, this bastard really does want me to leave.

"Wow. This is how you wanna play it, huh?" I scream and I hope his stupid camera is getting all the footage. "Well, fuck you! And fuck your tattoos! They're overrated, okay?"

I growl under my breath when nothing happens. "Dude, really? Don't be an ass! Look, all I want is—" I pause as my mind comes up with nothing. "I just want a tattoo. Honestly, I'll even pay extra!"

I wait for a few more minutes. The seconds tick by slowly.

Wow. He really doesn't care. Like, I know that he doesn't even know me but still! Does he really have no heart? No humanity?!

"I hope you fall into a ditch and break your neck!" I stick my middle finger up into the air and turn around. I walk towards the door and pause. "And for the record, my fucking name isn't Saffron. It's Scarlett Anderson, bitch."

With my parting words, I push the door almost effortlessly and walk out. Faint music from a nearby club hits my ear drums and I turn around to look through the glass doors.

He still isn't at the counter.

I scowl and kick the door hard. It doesn't budge. I scowl a bit harder and huff under my breath before walking away.

Oh, hell, he'd better watch out. He's definitely going to see me again.

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A/N: Hey guys!

+Updates will be a tad bit slow but knowing me, this will probably change.

+Also, thank you for #268 in Teen Fiction, like wtf? You guys are amazing x.