Jess Sterling, a handsome precocious teenager, secures a job at a milk dairy . . . Bob Servo, very tall, extremely handsome adonis, trains Jess the art of delivering milk . . . and its fringe benefits!

Jess’s Dad teaches him to box; he defeats Roger Stokes, the much older school-drop-out bully.

Sensuous Sally Blaine is off limits at he dairy, jailbait, and her father is a Detective with the Detroit Police Department. She serves Jess a cup of coffee with her phone number, and they spend the New Year together.

An accidental meeting brings Jess in touch with his former English Teacher, Mrs. Gladstone. He is fascinated with her voluptuous beauty . . . Sharon Gladstone wants this young handsome man for herself. She comments, "Milk? We can do better." . . . Mr. John Gladstone, owner of Detroit’s only golf club manufacturing plant, meets Jess with trepidation, says, "I’ll trust Sharon’s judgment, for now."

Jack English, a Gladstone lackey and plant manager assigns Jess to the golf club assembly room. Mr. Vang and Mr. Chow, controllers of their specially designed golf clubs, have reason to keep a watchful eye over this kid.

The involvement of Hub Blaine, Special FBI Agents, J.B. Clark and Shades Soble and the cleverness of Jess Sterling spinning a spider’s web around these cocaine thugs . . . and then, his maneuvering of Sharon Gladstone keep the pages turning for an exciting conclusion.

James Westmoreland, born in Dearborn, Michigan, raised in Detroit. Moved to New York, and worked a year in summer stock. Later, to Los Angeles to achieve a motion picture career. A lengthy run on General Hospital. Co-starring in The Monroes TV Series and starring and co-starring in numerous movies. Working with Spencer Tracy, Walter Brennen, Kirk Douglas and Rock Hudson also added to his experience and knowledge. He is presently completing his second novel. James is also a teaching golf professional who has produced his own instructional golf video. In the works is a comprehensive golf instructional book for school’s all over the world. A top athlete and photographer, he loves the outdoors.

The spotlight burned my eyes. I couldn’t see. I couldn’t move. My wrists were taped the arms of a chair. My legs were spread apart while my ankles were being taped to the chair legs. Tape ran across my forehead, locking my head back against the chair.

I could hear Jack English’s laugh, shrill loudly. The lights dimmed, giving me a vivid picture of Jack English. He was frothing at the mouth; his glaring eyes were soaked with red bloodshot veins running through them. He kept up his crazy laugh, while waving a bottle of Russian Vodka.

Mr. Chow was behind Jack, holding a hypodermic needle in his right hand, between his index and middle fingers. His thumb pushed down onto the needle’s plunger, spewing out streams of blue liquid. Jack English grabbed my head and forced it backward, then he poured Vodka down into my throat. I couldn’t breathe. I gasped for air. Vang grabbed my arm and stuck the needle into a vein in my arm.

The three men went into a crazed frenzy, screaming, laughing while showering the room with cocaine. Vang filled his hand with cocaine, then he shoved his overflowing palm into my face, forcing cocaine into my nose and down into my throat. The room was spinning, and the laughing became louder and louder.

Vang screamed, "Chow likes pretty boys, let’s watch."

Mr. Vang took off his bra and snapped his whip. His tongue darted in and out like a serpent. His mouth was inches from mine.

HELP! . . . I sat straight up in my bed, screaming.