On his sixteenth birthday, his dad had pulled him aside. His father, Moses “Mo” Stephens, was a jazz guitarist, a talented musician who had played with some of the greats—Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Herbie Hancock—and even released a couple of solo albums, one of which had gained critical acclaim but enjoyed only modest commercial success. Pops had been an inconstant presence in their household, always out of town for gigs and studio recording sessions, but Troy distinctly remembered his dad rolling a joint, taking a couple puffs, passing the weed to Troy, and then telling him, in his typical, colorful way: here’s your birthday advice, son, and you’re old enough to finally hear it. Your dick is meant to fly as free as the wind.

In Troy’s mind, hearing those words from his revered father was the equivalent of the President signing a bill to encourage free love. All of those raw, lustful urges that plagued him throughout his burgeoning teenage years were fine, Pops was saying—and he should indulge them to the limit.

The dick is meant to fly as free as the wind.

He had not been faithful to a girlfriend, ever. Not sexually. But he was always faithful emotionally. He loved his wife, and he loved all of his prior girlfriends with whom he had been in committed relationships. They got his heart, one hundred percent. But his body was meant to be shared freely.

He was careful about his activities. He always used protection, no matter what a woman promised him. He didn’t have any STDs (he got tested annually), and hadn’t fathered any children outside of his own marriage. He used a backup cell, a burner phone, to conduct his affairs. What he did in the streets, stayed in the streets. He owed that to Monica and his kids.

But he had powerful carnal needs. He was even willing to consider that he might have been a sex addict. But he wasn’t willing to do anything about it, and he’d made peace with that aspect of himself years ago.

The waiter brought their beverages. Liz took a slow sip from a straw, curled her finger around a strand of her dark hair, and gazed into his eyes, a look brimming with emotion that made him squirm in his chair.

“You wanted to talk about something?” he asked.

“Not much for small talk, huh?” she asked. “You want to get right to it.”

“I have a lot of work to finish today, Liz. A long, leisurely lunch wasn’t on my agenda.”

“I want to talk about where this is going.”

He almost choked on his tea. “What?”

“We’ve been doing this for five months. We have fun. We enjoy each other’s company. Do you agree?”

“Sure, it’s been good, the way things have been works well for me.”