"Geno nevah gave a fuckabout me!" Liz whined as her thumb wiped the side of her reddened, wind-chapped nose. "Ain't nothin', NOTHIN' you kin do when dat man's got his mind made! NOTHIN'!"
She looked physically tired; quaking in her thigh-high boots that almost met the edge of her micro-miniskirt. The tears trickled slowly from the corner of her heavily made-up eyes. Her mascara-mixed tears migrated down her cheeks making her resemble a sad, slutty pantomime.
What made matters worse was the oversized, acid-wash jacket, which had shoulder pads bigger than anything seen in Napoleon's closet. It dwarfed her small frame and made the crying, hairspray-laden blonde look even more ridiculous.
"I jus can't do it. Not anymoe, Jen. Doyah hea me? No mowah, evah!"
Liz had never been much for words. Besides not beating around the bush, the outspoken youngest child of a large, Jersey Catholic family could string together profanity so well that you might call her expletive binges closer to soliloquy than depravity.
That's what attracted Geno to her. As he often admiringly said, "Dat gurl don't take no shit from nobody."
Simply put, he was right -- well, almost right. Liz wouldn't take shit from anyone, with the exception of Geno. He did something to her, albeit involuntarily. That fighting-bred Pit bull on a one-quarter scale melted into a lap-loving Maltese around Geno. She was defenseless.