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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"Yo let me get a dub," the fiend called. Maxwell moved around in his hoodie and shook hands with the man. Transferring baggie to bread. Easy money. The city nights waited for nobody. Being a 1st generation American, shit wasn't easy. He hit the streets running because he couldn't stand the thought of being hungry. Maxwell looked over the corner he hustled and down at his kicks. This would be his way, his meal ticket. The niggas ain't here weren't smart. He had the grind and the brains. He didn't have shit, so it wasn't much to lose. He was pushing his packs out quicker than any other nigga around the way. Anything Tec had him touch turned green. Maxwell was a consignor in the game of streets it was only right he would once claim it as his own.
Maxwell watched with envious eyes as Jag's new Mercedes road down the block. He had it all, the money, the bitches, the jewels. But he lacked integrity and work ethic. If it one thing Maxwell's father taught him, is to stand on his feet and be a man. That's why he never took handouts, he didn't do I owe you's. Jag was everything the opposite, he would dickride his way to the top. Especially, that nigga Tec's.
Jag emerged from his car and the bitches flocked. He had a pick of the birds. "Max, come holla at me lil nigga." Maxwell looked both ways before stuffing his hands in his pockets. Walking over to Jag he eyed the women practically naked surrounding him. They had to be around his sister's age, shit was distasteful. Harlem bitches, seemed to be going downhill as time passed.
"You handle that?" Jag asked as he puffed his cigar. Maxwell didn't discuss things in public or around people he didn't know. Jag was moving like a rookie and he wasn't fucking with it. As long as Maxwell had been pushing the corners for him, he should have known. Looking both ways he pulled the wad of money, and placed it in Jag's hand before stepping back. "My fucking money maker!" Jag exclaimed.
"Oh, your eyes are so pretty," one of the women cooed rubbing her hands over his chest. Maxwell stepped back, before peering down at the woman. She was for sure a crackhead, bad as fuck though. He had been serving the shit long enough to know a fiend mannerism. Although her body screamed grown, her face said another story.
"Hold old is she," he asked. Jag's face smiled, he had been trying to get this nigga pussy for months and he kept dodging him. He was starting to think he was gay. Jag shrugged his shoulders. "Shit if I know. Baby girl, how old are you?" Jag snapped his fingers the girl's way. Her head was rolling as she was nodding off. Maxwell took that chance to look at her. The track marks, the bruises all over her body. This shit had got a hold of her and it was relentless to release her.
Moving her hair out of her face, she pushed herself off the car. "Grown enough." Maxwell shook his head, she was gone. Jag tapped her leg a couple of times. "Go make my little nigga feel good. If you do it good enough I'll have something for you." Maxwell declined over and over but when he realized Jag wasn't taking no for an answer he pushed on with her. The trap house had a smell, but pushing work here for so long you learn to ignore it or come accustomed.
