mysterious whispers, part 1

Two of my friends who shall remain anonymous until I get their permission to identify them, and I are writing a young adult novel. We each write a paragraph and then email it and take turns adding. We got the idea for it based on Friend #1's hot downstairs neighbor whom she only sees in the laundry room, and I thought it should be called "Mysterious Whispers" after a They Might Be Giants lyric that I think is funny. Anyway, here 'tis. I'll specify who wrote each paragraph.

(Written by me)
"Mysterious Whispers"
A YA novel

I was restless, and not without reason. Steve Raible was talking on the TV, but it was hard to concentrate with all the clanging around downstairs. I knew what the all metal slamming meant: Hott Downstairs Neighbor was doing his laundry. I'd peeked at his mail and learned his name was Jovan Musk. It only piqued my already-simmering curiosity about the man behind the swarthy exterior.

(Written by OfficeGnome)
I took a deep, slow breath and tried to focus on listening to the tonight's breaking news. Steve was reporting on a recent rash of robberies in my neighborhood. I was troubled by these crimes, but even more troubled by my incredible attraction to Steve's sexy voice.

(Written by Carrie)
Torn between two diversions, I sank into my papasan chair in a reverie. But before I could absorb Steve's sensuous murmurs about the robbery at Super Supplements, I suddenly remembered something! The realization hit me like a bar of Ivory soap inserted in a tube sock. I had volunteered to wash the colorful parachute from my most recent interactive Trust Issues class, and I knew it had completed the wash cycle by now (75 cents for one half hour). We use the parachute to bounce popcorn in the air, and last week the popcorn had been especially buttery. I realized with a jolt that Jovan Musk could be wondering how to work around this large mass of vibrant nylon. I shot up out of my chair like a poison dart from a straw. Before I even knew what I was doing I had grabbed my key and was stumbling down the stairs to the laundry room, clenched with simmering curiosity about what lied therein.

(Written by me)
As I approached the laundry room door my breath quickened, and I paused. Reaching to touch the bulbous girth of the doorknob, I licked my lips breathlessly and wondered what I could say to Jovan. Surely he would be up for discussing my Trust Issues parachute. But if I invited him up for Triscuits and maybe a white wine spritzer, what would he say? I pondered the many possible scenarios unfolding before me like cards spurting out of a dealer's shuffle machine. Worst case scenario, he would tell me to eat a hot bowl of dicks. I could live with that. Or could I? It was too late now. I gathered every ounce of courage I had, and forged into the laundry room.

(Written by OfficeGnome)
The room was moist and foggy, like the San Francisco that I've seen advertised on Rice-a-Roni commercials. The thick steamy air made seeing out of my brand-new Neil Hamburger-style (TM) glasses impossible. Ever since I saw Britney Spears wearing a pair in the latest issue of US Weekly (R), I knew I had to get some for myself.

"Hello, is anyone there?" I called out. A mysterious voice whispered back to me from beyond....