No Place Like Home

By DeAnna Holland

“Whether the system works or it doesn’t, it didn’t work for me...”

Having just aged out of foster care, eighteen-year-old Jules finds herself homeless and broke. Shortly after her eighteenth birthday, she’s sent packing with very little money and very few personal belongings. However, with her social worker’s help, she finds a place that she can call home—temporarily. But growing up in foster care has left her emotionally scarred, and opening up to people and letting them in is not something she ever wants to do again.

Until she meets Jake. The attraction is almost instant, and he is someone she can definitely see herself falling for. But Jules quickly discovers that everything is not always as It seems, and people are rarely who they appear to be. After learning the truth about Jake, she wants nothing more to do with him. But Jake is captivated by Jules—not just because of her mesmerizing hazel eyes, but because she has unwavering strength despite the unfortunate life she’s had—and he’s not letting go that easily. He’s determined to win her heart, and with each passing day he shreds more of her resolve. With Jake’s help, Jules soon discovers that—even though she has spent most of her life parentless and homeless—there’s no place like home...

• Language: English
• Publisher: DeAnna Holland
• Release date: Mar 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311286819

DeAnna Holland

DeAnna Holland is a twenty-something year-old writer who spends majority of her time with her head in a book or in a computer screen—sometimes both at the same time thanks in large part to her undiagnosed ADHD. She’s kind of a slob, ditching neatness in favor of what she calls “organized clutter,” and when she’s writing, she’s slightly neurotic. Thank the cosmos for her drug of choice, orange soda, or she’d have no other way to cope with the utter chaos that is her life. For updates, check her out on Facebook, Twitter, and Goodreads. For information regarding upcoming releases (and to listen to her vent), check out her blog: deannaholland.blogspot.com.For questions, comments, and the like, feel free to correspond via email: [e-mail].

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Copyright © 2014 by DeAnna Holland.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. For permission requests, submit an inquiry in writing to the email address listed below, using the subject line Permissions.  Emails without a subject will be disregarded.

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This book is a work of fiction.  The characters, things, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any similarities to real persons (living or dead), things, or events are purely coincidental and not the intention of the author.  The brand names of products mentioned in this book are used solely for reference and have been used without permission.  The author acknowledges that any trademarks and product names are the property of their respective owners.

Cover photo used under license from shutterstock.com

Praise for No Place Like Home

I can’t believe that this is DeAnna Holland’s first published book. It’s so well-written and the characters are so well-written and real that I’d think she’d been doing this writing gig for forever.

-Lesley, Let’s Get lost in a Good Book

I loved this story, it made me tingle at times…

-Sue, Sue’s Cover Reveals & Promotions

This was a sweet story. At times it was sad and times happy but overall very moving. I instantly felt drawn to the characters and Jules’ story pulled at my heart from the very first page.

-Megan, There’s This Book

This was a very powerful story.

-Cara, Brit Nanny Reads

I love the characters, the plot and the pacing. Her debut novel had me hooked, and totally in love. If this is her first book and it had me swooning, I can’t wait what her future work entails!

-Cha, Book Freak

This was a sweet story. It’s always a good sign when I find myself sneaking in a few sentences here and there throughout my day when I should be doing something else.

-Goodreads Review

dear, reader:

I had a lot to think about as I prepared NPLH for its massive revision. I knew that in order for this story to be what both my publisher and I wanted, I was going to have to make some changes.  In order to start, I needed to ask myself many important questions.  The most important was, why am I writing this story?

The truth was I didn’t know the answer to that, and that was problem number one.  I should’ve figured that out before I wrote it, let alone published it.  So I walked away from it and I really thought about it.  Truthfully, it didn’t take long for me to figure out why I had to tell this story. I wrote NPLH because I wanted to tell readers about the power of love. And I know that sounds cliché, especially for a romance author, but it’s true. 

Love is one of the most underrated emotions simply because we don’t give it its proper credit.  Love is one of the most basic, most fundamental elements of life. It’s why we value family, why we choose our partners…it’s why we live.  Because we love and want to be loved.  It’s an emotion that’s so instinctual, we only need seconds to know how to do it. Yet it can take forever to learn how to respond to it, especially when we feel we don’t deserve it, and it can completely annihilate us when we love without reciprocity.

So as you read this story, I hope it teaches you something you never really needed to learn and that you’ll spare a little room in your hearts for these characters. After all, you’ve got a whole lotta love to give.

XO,

DeAnna

coming 2016!

The Art Teacher (Standalone)

No Place to Run (No Place # 2)

No Place to Hide (No Place #3)

In Search of After (Standalone)

contents

copyright

dedication

prologue

one

two

three

four

five

six

seven

eight

nine

ten

eleven

twelve

thirteen

fourteen

fifteen

sixteen

seventeen

eighteen

nineteen

twenty

epilogue

author’s note

acknowledgments

about the author

back matter

for my daughters.

when the time comes, may you live your lives limitlessly.

One of the hardest things in life is having words in your heart that you can’t utter.

—James Earl Jones

prologue

It’s quiet when I step inside.  That eerie quiet that sort of beckons you because nothing good ever comes out of this type of quiet. 

Once inside the dilapidated shack I’ve called home for the past several months, I shut the front door behind me, taking care to close it slowly for fear it may fall off its hinges.  But that’s where the caution ends.  I have to find the source of this blaring silence before it’s too late. I take two steps and— 

Fuck! I shout-whisper right before I fall to the floor and just like that, I regret my decision to forgo caution because I nearly break my ankle when my foot collides with something big and heavy lying on the floor. Luckily whatever it is is soft and cushiony, softening the blow. A laundry bag full of clothes, I think. 

As my mind is slowly trying to connect the dots and piece together what’s happening right now, a light flicks on and a long shadow stretches over me. Ms. Gilliam steps into the living room, clad in her stained robe that she insists on leaving untied, revealing her dingy nightie that exposes more skin than I can stomach. A cigarette dangling from her cracked lips. 

What…what is this? I ask, righting myself. 

What do you mean, silly girl? It’s your stuff. Her voice, a deep rasp that insists she’s two puffs away from having a trach put in her throat, grates on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. 

"My stuff? Why do you have my stuff packed at the front door?" I ask like I don’t already know the answer. 

She takes a pull from her cigarette and yanks it from her lips then curls her mouth into a small O, the smoke releasing from it like a chimney. I watch the smoke morph into wispy fingers that claw at my oxygen. 

"It’s your birthday gift.  I know how much you love being here so I’m giving you the one thing you’ve been wanting since you came. An out." She nods with her head to the door I’d just entered. 

I almost forgot it’s my birthday.  Well, I had, in fact, forgotten it’s my birthday until about three seconds ago when she made mention of it. 

And she’s right. This is the one thing I’ve wanted most since I arrived at her home seven months ago.  But I never imagined this day would be like this. Forced away on my birthday with no place to go from here.  Is this even legal? Can she do this? 

I want to put up a fight and demand that she at least allow me to stay until I can make other arrangements for my living situation but I don’t have the energy to fight with her.  I learned quickly after arriving that backtalk was something that Ms. Gilliam wasn’t going to put up with, however warranted that backtalk may be. Besides, she’s made herself pretty clear that staying here is no longer an option. 

So I fold to the floor, kneeling in front of the laundry bag that both caused and broke my fall, searching for a few things that I know I’ll absolutely need.  I sneak a couple of glances up at Ms. Gilliam only to find her gazing down at me, a satisfied grin spread wide across her sagging face. The flab of skin that hangs from her chin rests against her neck and it’s always annoyed me.  I wish I could just reach up and rip it from her face. As disgusting as that sounds, it might actually be an improvement so I instantly toss that thought out of my mind. 

Once I’m finished sorting through my things, I slip my backpack from my shoulders and shove it all inside. I tug the zipper closed, slide the backpack back onto my shoulders, and stand to my feet, my lips locked into a tight ball, fighting with all their might to suppress the things I really want to say to her.  I mean, there really is nothing stopping me from saying them at this point. I’d be long gone before she’d ever be within striking distance, but I’ve somehow managed to convince myself that insulting her would be a waste of perfectly fine words. Nothing in my vocabulary seems adequate anyway. There’s not a whole lot of ways to say fuck you that is as effective as silence. 

As I turn toward the front door, I want to cry but my stubbornness dams the tears that are begging to fall. I shut my eyes, taking extra care to avoid a final look around. It’s not necessary.  The memories I have will last me a lifetime. 

Memories that, if I could, I’d gladly give back.

one

two weeks later

Make it stop.  Please, just make it fucking stop.  I resist the urge to press my hands against my ears to block out the baby’s ear-piercing wails.  (I mean, because that would be totally rude behavior, right?) Its mother has been trying, albeit unsuccessfully, to placate the child for the past seven minutes. Seven agonizingly long minutes. 

I consider taking my phone and earpods out of my backpack and letting the sounds of Florence + the Machine fill my brain, but I don’t because I don’t want to not hear my name when it’s called.  Which I’m hoping will happen any second now. Any second now…

The baby releases another screeching cry and I think the mother senses my annoyance because she smiles apologetically at me. I’m too irritated to return the gesture. Instead, I roll my eyes shut, exhale sharply, and continue to wait for my name to be called. 

I don’t even know why I’m here. I mean, I do know why I’m here, but it’s not as if any of it matters. I’m here because I’ve been dismissed from my fifteenth and final foster home. My last foster mother decided that it was time for me to go the minute her monthly stipend from the government ended.   

I turned eighteen two weeks ago, which is usually a milestone most people take great measures to celebrate.  Unfortunately for me, the closer I got to my eighteenth birthday meant the closer I got to my impending doom, which was definitely not a cause for celebration.   

The days leading up to my eighteenth birthday loomed over me like a dark cloud.  It was a day I dreaded because I just knew it was going to be the day my foster mother sent me packing. When it finally happened, I wanted to die. My only comfort at the time was a strange sense of relief because I no longer had to stress about whether or not it was going to happen. 

And so here I am. I have to meet with my social worker to discuss my options for moving forward with my life being that I have officially aged out of foster care.  But I am pretty certain that I know how this is going to go.  Miss Allen—the social worker who’s been assigned to my case for the last twelve years—will inform me that since I am eighteen, I am basically on my own. 

That’s how the system works, but I think it is proof of just the opposite.  I know there are some people who will disagree with me, but either way—whether the system works or it doesn’t—it didn’t work for me.   

When I think about all I’ve been through in my short existence, I wonder why I still keep going, why I haven’t given in to the urges to end my suffering in a more permanent way.  But I know that’s just the coward in me talking. And just like that the baby’s cries have become background noise to the thoughts in my head. This is apparently a much more dangerous place to be. 

Julianne Stanton? my social worker’s voice breaks through my thoughts, and I turn my head in the direction of her voice.   

Overwhelmingly grateful for my rescue, from both the baby and myself, I quickly stand and make my way to the door that leads to the back offices, my exuberance palpable. The mother of the shrieking baby continues to rock the child but I don’t miss the look of annoyance she tosses at me before I disappear behind the door. Really? She has the nerve to be annoyed with me? Incredulous… 

I hitch my backpack up on my shoulder and fall into step behind Miss Allen as she leads me to her office. She motions with a wave of her hand for me to sit down in a chair across from her desk and then closes the door behind us. I sink down into my chair watch my social worker search through my file. 

  She moves with an ease that I envy.  Her movements seem effortless. I’m always so hyperaware of my own.  I know how easily body language can be misread and give people the wrong idea about who you are and what you want.  Or even more importantly, what you don’t. 

So, Julianne. 

Jules, I correct her. 

Jules, she says, skimming my file once more.  I don’t know why she even bothers looking through it; she should have it memorized by now: Julianne Estefania Stanton, born May 24, 1995, to two asshat parents who wanted nothing to do with her and, after living with fifteen different foster families, she’s now homeless with no place to go. 

You turned eighteen a couple of weeks ago, right?

Unfortunately, I mumble under my breath.  The only fortunate—and I use that word loosely—part of my situation is that I’m finally done with foster homes for good. 

Hey, now, she chides as she closes the file.  You are blessed to have made it this far.  I almost tell her to define blessed but I instantly think better of it.  She is probably the closest thing I have to an ally and I don’t want to screw that up by badmouthing her so instead I slouch in my seat and hunch my shoulders.  I’ll be cooperative, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to pretend to be happy about it. Although, I’m sure she’s probably used to my obvious disdain for life.  She’s been stuck with me ever since my first foster family deemed me unworthy. 

Happy belated birthday, by the way. 

I don’t acknowledge her two-weeks-too-late birthday wish. I respond only by crossing my arms in front of my chest and leaning back further in my seat. 

When I don’t respond, she sighs. Look, I know you probably already know what the deal is when you turn eighteen so I’ll just cut to the chase.  We have families that open their homes temporarily to individuals in your…situation, but they fill up fast. Unfortunately, we have none available at the moment.  Another potential option could be transitional housing.  It’s almost like a group home for kids your age, but because you are not currently working nor going to school, I cannot immediately place you into one of those types of homes either. 

So why would she tell me they have those kind of homes, just to turn around, and in the same breath, tell me that none are available?  I don’t know what kind of torture she’s trying to put me through, but I’m not going to stay around for it.  So much for thinking she was on my side.   

Well, I say, rising to my feet, since we’re cutting to the chase here, it’s obvious that you can’t help me so I think I’ll just leave. I grab my bag off the floor and sling it over my shoulder with much more force than is necessary.  With me feeling as though I’m swiftly running out of options, I almost want to cry. 

Almost.

I haven’t cried once in the last twelve years—not even on perhaps the worst day of my life—so I’m not going to start now. 

Wait! she calls before I reach the door.  With my hand on the doorknob, I halt my footsteps and turn to face her. Julianne, I can provide you with a list of facilities in the city where you can find temporary shelter.  She holds out a stapled packet to me. I snatch it from her hands then instantly regret it. It’s not her fault my life’s a hot, fucked-up mess.

Luckily, Miss Allen is unfazed by my tantrum. As I’m sure you know, they’re only available on a day-to-day basis.  They fill up fast and the lines are usually extremely long, she tells me warily. 

I’m aware. 

How do you feel about staying in those types of places? 

And the torture continues.  What kind of question is that?  How do I feel? I cannot even begin to form the words to adequately describe how much I detest the idea of having to shuffle from shelter to shelter for I don’t know how long so I respond to her ridiculous question by saying, Beggars can’t be choosers, right? 

Miss Allen pauses for a moment, and as if a lightbulb goes off in her mind, she snaps her fingers. I think I know a place, she says, shifting her eyes to stare in mine.  This family is not on our approved list of homes so you’d have to keep quiet about it, but I’m well acquainted with this family, and I know they’d be more than happy to have you. 

Look, I really do want to— 

Julianne, Miss Allen interrupts as she waves a dismissive hand.  I insist.  I don’t feel comfortable sending you to one of those shelters alone. She glances at her watch. If you don’t mind hanging out here for about an hour, I can take you to meet the family. 

Okay, I say, but I can’t deny that I’m slightly hesistant.

Good.  As I said, I know them well and they’d be happy to have you.  It will only be temporary and I’ll place you on the waiting list for an after-eighteen home.  In the meantime, you can stay with this family and take some time to get yourself together.  You know, maybe find a job, save up for a place of your own, or even apply for some colleges. 

I snort at her obvious delusion, but I don’t comment on her lack of realism.  I mean, despite a lack of permanence with my living arrangements, my grades in high school were superb.  My SAT scores are near-perfect.  I could probably get into college if I wanted to go, but I don’t.  I can’t afford it anyways.  I have more urgent matters to tend to—like finding some place to lay my head.  I can still hear my last foster mother’s angry words echoing in my mind.   

You’ll never go anywhere or be anything.  Look at you.  Nobody even wants you.

I don’t know what I’d ever done to warrant such hatred from her other than being in placed in her home—something that was completely beyond my control.  I know I shouldn’t let her words affect me and have a little more faith in myself but it’s difficult to do after hearing them for so long.  I never found a forever family after longing for one after all these years so, for me, college is nothing more than yet another pipe dream that doesn’t deserve any further thought, time, or attention. 

Okay, I say to appease her but, unbeknownst to her, I don’t give the subject a second thought. So how long before I know something about the other temporary homes?  You know, the ones that have been approved by the state?

Weeks. Months. Maybe longer.  Definitely not in the near or distant future.  But don’t lose hope. Sometimes these homes can open up unexpectedly.  Sometimes the kids leave on their own accord, and sometimes they are just not a good fit with the families they have been placed with.  I’ll make sure to keep you informed of your position on the list.  Is your contact information the same? 

I have a prepaid smartphone that I bought myself as a Christmas gift. It’s nothing new or spectacular, just some used old iPhone that I bought online from Amazon, but it’s mine. It’s the only thing I’ve ever been able to buy myself, saving up nearly every dollar I earned babysitting for my old neighbors. It’s just that right now, as a phone, it’s useless. My prepaid smartphone plan ran out last week, and I can’t afford to get it turned back on.

I have two hundred bucks to my name, and that may seem like a lot right now, but I’ve got to make it last for as long as I can. But I may need to spare a few dollars to turn it back on. It didn’t matter until now that I can’t talk on it, though, because I mostly use it for its camera anyway.  I love taking pictures, and it has become more than just a creative outlet for me.  Taking pictures has become a way for me to escape the squalor of the life I’ve lived and to find beauty in the midst of all the ugliness. 

No, I finally answer.  My cellphone is no longer working. 

Okay. Just come back to check in with me.  Whenever you come in, I will try to squeeze you in between appointments.  So tell me, she says, sitting up straighter in her chair.  Leaning forward, she folds her hands in front of her and rests them on her desk.  Are you still attending the support group? 

Yeah, I am actually. She had recommended the support group to me years ago though I’ve only just recently begun attending about six months ago. 

And? she asks expectantly. 

And…? I reply, shrugging my shoulders and shaking my head.  I don’t know what she expects me to say.  I go and listen to others speak, but I am not exactly forthcoming.  The support group coordinator doesn’t push me to do anything I am not comfortable doing just yet.  It’s the only reason I still go.  Talking about my life and the unpleasantness of my existence is redundant.  I already have to live it, why throw salt in my gaping wound by talking about it? 

Is it helping? 

I suppose. 

Good.  I told you it’d be good for you to connect with others who are in a situation similar to yours.  It’s good to know you’re not alone, y’know. Talking about it helps. 

So should I just wait here or back out there? I ask, pointing at the door with my thumb and effectively changing the subject. 

I have another appointment scheduled to start soon.  You can wait back in the lobby if you want.  Or you can go out and grab a bite to eat or something.  Just be back before five.  I get off at five. 

I think about just waiting in the lobby for her, but when my stomach starts to rumble in protest, I think I have my answer.  With my hand on the knob, I turn back to her and say, See you at five. 

Once I leave the administrative building, I walk across the street to the first restaurant I see.  It’s some hole-in-the-wall pizza place that looks like it’s currently in violation of several health codes, but they have pizza for  two dollars a slice. At that price, the prospect of greasy, possibly insect-infested pizza becomes more appetizing by the second. 

I walk in, get in line, and wait until it is my turn to order.  The line is long and moving dreadfully slowly.  My belly rumbles start to become roars, and I clutch my stomach willing them to subside.  Come to think of it, I don’t remember the last time I’ve eaten, which is probably why my stomach is rumbling so loudly that it can probably be heard in the next state over, I’m sure. 

When it’s finally my turn, I give the dude behind the counter my order—a single slice of pepperoni and sausage and a medium Coke—before making my way along the line.  Then the same guy taking my order yells, Next! without even looking at me so I move along with the rest of the line.

I’ll have what she’s having, says a deep voice from behind me. I turn around to place a face with the voice, and when I lock eyes with him, it catches me a little off guard.   

I’m not into guys at all, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t affected by his looks. I think he’s about my age, maybe a year or two older.  Kinda tall.  I stand at a mere five-foot-two, and he’s got at least a foot on me.  Creamy olive skin, dark eyes, and dark-brown hair cut low on the sides with longer strands purposely ruffled on top.  My eyes trail over the length of his tall body.  He’s dressed in a white shirt and khakis, and honestly, you’d have to be a freak of nature to pull that off like he does.

He catches me staring and I quickly try to look away but not before catching him wink at me.

I roll my eyes.  This guy is weird.  Who does that? Winking at people all creeper-like. I quickly avert my gaze, willing my eyes to focus on something else. 

But I can’t. 

Because I can feel his stare.  I glance back at him. He smiles and it’s crooked, dimpled, and…and dangerous. I know how amazingly deceptive smiles like that can be. 

But I can’t make myself look away. 

What? he asks as the corners of his mouth tilt into a cocky smirk. You’ve got good taste. 

Can’t say I disagree, but I want to.

Ma’am? the cashier calls and breaks this awkward exchange. I turn around toward the counter and eye the cashier questioningly.  Then I remember: food.  I gotta pay for my food.     

Annoyed with myself, I direct my attention back to the guy behind the counter, but I still can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched. Yes? I ask and then risk another backwards glance in the weird guy’s direction. 

He’s still there. 

And he’s still watching me. 

Three seventy-two, ma’am, the cashier says in an Italian accent so thick I can barely understand him, but the annoyance in his tone is unmistakable. 

Huh? Three seventy-two? Oh, right, I still have to pay for my food. Right, I say and reach into my pocket and hand the guy a five dollar bill, and he hands me back a dollar bill and a few coins.  I hastily grab my bag and Styrofoam cup from the counter as I make a beeline for the exit.  I nearly make it when a calloused hand clutches my wrist. 

Hey, the familiar voice says. I turn around and once again, my gaze collides with his. Um, he says as he nervously runs a hand along the back of his neck. I’m going to eat my food here.  Care to join me? 

Yes! No! Fuck.. I don’t know if— 

Hey, buddy! the cashier calls to the guy, interrupting my response and saving me from what is shaping up to be an epic failure.  Your food and change? He holds up a brown paper bag in one hand and dollar bills in the other. 

Mr. Creeper, as I’ve decided to refer to him since I have yet to learn his name, holds up a finger to me as if to say one minute and dashes hurriedly back to the counter to retrieve his food.  I take that as my cue to get the hell out of there. I take off like my life depends on it because right now, it feels like it does.

two

Thought you could get rid of me that easily?

My head jolts upward in the direction of the voice.  A voice I’ve heard before. I thought I’d escaped him.  I ran straight out of