Come explore and find a deeper understanding of how the Watson name came to be. The struggles. The love. A prequel of His M.V.P.
⚠️ Recommend reading His M.V.P. first but not required!
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The nights and days seemed to move quicker as Maxwell was in a grind mode. No sleep, he could do that when he was dead. The hunger that burned inside him kept him on the streets at the most peculiar of times. Money never slept and so he didn't either. Maxwell made a name for himself. Mad Max. People all around knew not to play with his money, or he would simply handle it. Any drug you could think of, he was flipping it. He was pharmaceutical to the community all around. Maxwell had gone from taking orders from Jag to dealing up close with Tec. Although it was all good, this wasn't his final destination. He didn't know how Tec would handle it, but he had just about saved up enough money to buy his own shit. He wanted in, he was ready to place a bid with the heavy hitters. Maxwell wanted his own streets, his own work, and his own soldiers.
"Yerrr, you see baby girl right there," an associate of Maxwell called. He looked up and peered down the street. For some unknown reason, he felt this pressure in his chest as he roomed over her. Hair long and flowy. Reminded him of Pocahontas. She stuck out like a sore thumb. Her plaid skirt and button-up. Nothing about her screamed Harlem. Either she had gotten lost or she was one of the rich women looking for a thrill with a thug. Neither of which Maxwell was interested in.
"Ayo mommy, come holla at a really nigga. I got something long and hard for you baby," the man told as he grabbed himself. Her face turned up and she found no amusement in his advances. Maxwell watched as his eyes panned from her to the dice game he was engrossed in. With a flick of his hand, he snapped a 7. His favorite number. He kept a still face as he grabbed his money. The groans and complaints were typical, they should have known to get up when Maxwell grabbed the dice.
"Lana, what I got to do to get yo cousin's number," the man called. Maxwell kept his eyes low and rolled again.
She rolled her neck and placed her hand on her hip before blowing a big bubble and popping it with her mouth. "Boy, my cousin don't want you. But my girl do," she pointed to the woman with the odd-shaped head and teeth. She wasn't easy on the eyes, but she carried herself like she was the shit. That she was not. Maxwell, not one to find shit amusing, laughed lowly. Pocahontas, her eyes fell to his and she looked him over with approval before turning back to the conversation.
"Son, you see how she frontin' on me. I'm good on shorty, I want her," he said pointing straight at the uppity woman. Maxwell stood and folded his money and slipped it into his money in his pocket. Holding his hand out he shook up with his partners. "Im out."
"Hey!" Lana yelled. He looked back briefly. "My cousin wants to know yo name." He looked the woman over and her sheepish demeanor. She was no were from over here. Maxwell wasn't interested in being a fetish for no Manhattan bitch dream. He slyly smirked. "Tell Pochantas, I'm the wrong nigga to get to know." He heard her question the name, but It was for him and only him to know.
His Timberland boots hit the hard gravel of the streets. Harlem was lively, and Harlem was thriving. It was home, he couldn't imagine being anywhere than where he was. Stepping into the bodega, he sent a nod to Hassan. Maxwell had been coming here since he was a kid, he had practically seen him grow up. Opening the cooler he grabbed a water, and allowed it to smooth his dry throat. Momma Vea didn't play about the processed food and drinks of America. It had no place in her home.
