Page 73 of Damiano De Luca (The Five Syndicates)
“Could be. Or they could be named after the historian—Arnold J. Toynbee. There are some more theories. No one really knows for sure.” I grabbed his hand and led him across the street. “Toynbee tiles are messages embedded in tiles in streets all over major US cities. Four South American cities, too.”
“Who makes them?” He was indulging me—I knew that—but it just made me like him more.
A few more steps, and we’d get to the next tile. “No one knows who creates them—past and present. But it started in the 80s. Honestly, I’d bet there are hundreds of creators. People who just want to cement their place in history.” I stopped in front of the next, a few blocks from the last one. “Here’s another.”
A crack split this one in two, but it only added to its appeal. It was history, stomped on, worn out, but forever here. In a fucked-up way, it reminded me of my relationship with Damian. A little too much.
Damian looked down and read aloud. “Will it always hurt this much? Or is this Forever making me work for it?”
The grin on my face was one-hundred percent stupid.
He took in my face. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“This is cheesy and dramatic.”
“The tile?” I bit my lip to keep from laughing.
“Yes.”
The laughter slipped past my lips. “I won’t argue with that.”
His eyes narrowed at my laughter, but he let it slide. “Are we doing a tile tour? That’s… either very original or so New York City hipster.”
“Yes, this is a tile tour. Bear with me, Texas.”
“I don’t mind the history, but I wouldn’t say no to some incentive.”
I looked both ways before pushing Damian into the brick wall between two stores. I placed each of his hands on my hips to give me coverage from the crowded street.
He gave me a look. “What are you doing?”
I felt carefree and devious as I dipped my hands into my skirt from the waistband. “Giving you incentive.” Tearing the fabric on each side, I pulled my panties off of me and tucked my shirt back in.
“Are those your panties?”
“Yes.” I slid them into the pocket of his suit pants, my fingers brushing against his length as I pulled my hand out. “For every tile we see, I’ll give you a piece of me.”
He thought I meant my clothes. I meant everything. He had made the first move when we were kids. It was my turn to take a leap.
The heat in his eyes traveled straight to my core. “Next tile. Now.”
I laughed, and we walked a few blocks away, into Little Italy. I turned to him. “Most people think spaghetti and meatballs were invented in Italy, but they were actually first made here.”
&
nbsp; “How do you know so much about New York? I thought you went to boarding school in Connecticut.”
“My mom lived near my school. She’d take me to the city at least once a month. We’d do a ton of cool things here. I fell in love with the city.” Even though sharing things went against my nature, this felt so right. “You’d like my mom. She stays under the radar.” I noted his frown and elaborated. “Yeah, she and Papà aren’t really good at the whole married thing.”
A derisive scorn filled his handsome face. “I’d know something about that.”
I sighed and took in the scent of Little Italy. “Here’s the next one.”
Situated in between two pizzerias, just before the alleyway entrance, a tile read:
I treaded the water when
