This was Olivia #7. Elliot didn't know her real name, nor did he want to. He had christened each of them Olivia, because they reminded him of her.
"Ooh, baby," moaned Olivia #7. "That feels good."
He suddenly felt nauseous. The real Olivia would never say that. Well, actually, she might; he wouldn't know. He'd never fucked her. That was all it was, not "making love", but fucking. To ease the memories.
To ease the pain.
He shoved Olivia #7 off him and tossed a hundred dollar bill in her direction. "Just go!" he screamed, practically throwing the brown-haired prostitute back out into the cold, dark night.
He sank into a chair, buried his head in his hands, and cried and cried.
